Although he had only a few hours each day free of handcuffs, the metal alloy remained lightweight and relatively comfortable despite the slight encumbrance. He also preferred them to the other options such as death or the cargo hold. As it was, Alan's captors restricted his movements to the captain's quarters and the computer locked him out of all but the most basic functions, but beyond that they left him to his own devices.

Sven even pitied him enough that he uploaded a number of books onto the terminal for Alan's entertainment. The literature ranged from short stories to epic novels written mostly in Interplanetary Standard, as well as a few in United Pyrean and one terrible translation of Innocents Abroad. Several parties must have butchered the poor thing in the transition first between English and Pyrean then finally to International Human. Despite the quality, Alan appreciated the gesture although perhaps not the unstated humor.

Between these books, a self-imposed regiment of daily exercise and his dreams of escape, Alan moved through days measured in Standard Pyrean time rather than Universal, much to his internal clock's dismay. He rarely had visitors and Sven spent long hours away - no doubt playing at captain - so Alan's primary companion remained Eric.

Before his capture Alan would have denied that iguanas, however genetically modified, had the ability to smoke cigars, drink beer or read pornography, but before his capture he had not met Eric. Once he tried to pet the scaly beast and Eric rewarded him with a hiss and glimpse of small sharp teeth in the pink of its mouth. Alan had carefully withdrawn his hand and after a few minutes, the lizard snapped his jaw shut and climbed up Alan's shoulder with a contented expression. At least Alan assumed it was contented.

Now they had a tentative understanding; Alan respected the other's space and the lizard literally walked all over him. Eric had stopped smoking after several sharp looks from the human, and Alan considered that an important step forward in their relationship. Indeed it was the best relationship he ever had with a reptile, and whether as a roommate or cellmate, Alan could have had worse.

Truly this was a fine prison - makeshift but considerate and not at all cruel. The only complaint Alan had (and one that everyone chose to ignore) regarded his warden. Sven with his luminescent green eyes and shaggy haircut contained all the childish exuberance Alan expected from a puppy or retarded three-year old. Even taking into account his noble birth and prestigious father, he was young for an officer. And aside from a disconcerting amount of charisma, he did not have any of the qualifications necessary for a pirate captain. This perplexed Alan, and the human hated mysteries.

Alan continued to stare at the terminal screen as his lips twisted in consternation. The pyrean captain was an itch - a constant and far too insistent distraction - that he could ignore for only so long before it floated again to the forefront of his thoughts. Sven irritated him, grated on him, but despite his best efforts, Alan could not actually bring himself to dislike the other. Which only furthered his annoyance. And made the human wonder if he had gone insane.

Like a rhetorical devil, Sven entered the room on the trail of Alan's thoughts, and the inspector turned away from the terminal and gave up his half-hearted attempts at hacking into the system. Sven did not greet him with his usual cheerfulness but slunk across the room with despondent steps. After acknowledging Alan with only the barest of nods, Sven settled in his seat and pulled up a file on his palmCom. Although he poked at the touchscreen with a lethargic finger, his expression seemed moody and distant as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

Hesitating, Alan returned his attention to the computer and opened a file containing the complete works of Skeld Locken - a lesser known and overly lyric pyrean poet that Alan hated on principle. Alan did not care if Sven wished to remain quiet. In fact he preferred the boredom of silence to the other's incessant chatter and felt relieved for the tranquility.

The minutes ticked by and neither man spoke; Sven did not so much as look up and Alan refused to initiate a conversation. Only the intercom declaring a 'Gate jump in three minutes broke the heavy silence, and Alan listened to the telltale hum of the Hyper-Gate generators with gratitude. Precisely three minutes later he felt a faint lurch and the frozen stars outside the porthole began to move with disorienting speed. They had entered Hyperspace, but Sven's eyes remained fixed on his palmCom.

Having read the same line of poetry regarding the hidden sounds of space for the twentieth time, Alan flipped off the monitor with a look of disgust. When he at last spoke, the words hissed through clenched teeth in a barely civil voice.

"Okay Jiordson, what's wrong." He did not bother to make it a question.

Sven looked up with surprise as if he had forgotten Alan's presence. After a moment of consideration, he shrugged without bothering to smile and answered in a subdued voice, "The Candid Popinjay has sent out a distress signal and we're closest to respond. He's a fine ship, but still. They sent out the call nearly a pyrean week ago, and none of my crew is optimistic."

Alan considered the other's words as he recalled pyrean ship-naming convention. The bird denoted the ship's class, while the adjective represented an epithet for the ship's current captain. He tried to think back to his Elite Institute days and managed a mental image of the Popinjay. Marginally larger than the Swallow class, they were slower with fewer but more powerful guns.

It took considerably more effort to picture the captain's face but that also came at last - a modest elderly man with thick patches of gray in his reddish-brown hair and the black eyes more typical of pyrean commoners than nobility. The features only stood out in Alan's mind because they were so unremarkable.

"Alec Laismann," Alan mused out loud as the name came to him - the leftovers still clinging to his memory after the long series of Elite exams.

Sven nodded absently, "He is a good friend of my dad. They attended the same naval academy, you know, and Alec was his tutor in economics."

Alan stared through the cloudy porthole as he recalled the report on Laismann that he had studied as a student. The captain was competent but in no way brilliant. Everyone considered him even-handed and honorable, but the Popinjay rarely participated in actual piracy. Instead it tended to serve as an escort or protected the pryean government's interests by patrolling more volatile areas of space.

The vessel could have fallen under the pyrean Naval Defense branch as easily as it did in the Piracy Division, but the designation made a great deal of difference to Alan. He muttered in a droll voice, "Forgive me for not mourning."

The room's temperature seemed to drop, and even though Alan kept his eyes on the window, he could feel Sven's glare cutting into the back of his head. Rather than further provoke the captain, Alan waited with feigned apathy.

The pyrean did not disappoint and retorted in a voice just short of a snarl, "I didn't expect an Elite rat to understand."

Alan's head whipped around and he saw the other had risen to his feet with all traces of geniality replaced by something cold and angry. Never had Alan seen this side of the Swallow's captain, and it inexplicably made him angry in turn. All the frustration at his captivity, all the resentment toward this man and his crew, now overwhelmed the human as he rose out of his chair. He stood over a head taller than Sven and used this to his advantage, giving the pyrean a disdainful look - chill arrogance perfected on Earth by the company of human nobility.

When he spoke, his laced his voice with contempt. "There is very little to understand, Captain Jiordson. I only need to know that my people can rest a little easier knowing at least one more crew of dogs is dead."

He shouldn't have said that - Alan knew as much as soon as he opened his mouth - but the words came out just the same. Thus he did not flinch when Sven decked him across the temple with enough force to knock him to the floor. And as his world spun in explosions of black and red, he pushed himself up only enough to maintain some dignity. Such words deserved no less, and he had no right to retaliation.

Rather than continue his assault, the pirate spoke as if Alan had not answered. "I didn't expect an Elite rat to understand, but as a Volsung -"

At the name, Alan's temper flared anew, and he stumbled to his feet, hands bound in front of him and head still reeling from the blow. "I told you that's not -"

"Your name? You know I've met Tristan. You have his eyes."

You have his eyes. She said that when he came back to the manor with a torn shirt, blackened eye and split lip. That had been the first time he cursed Tristan von Volsung's name as he held back tears of frustration - frustration at the beating and his supposed friends' betrayal, but also because he was different. He was pyrean, and Earth had no place for his kind.

She had pressed a cold compress against his temple and placed a light hand on his shoulder, and somehow even those faint gestures of affection took away the pain as much as the bandages. A gentle but sad smile hovered on her lips as she pressed him against her and whispered in his hair, Alai, don't believe them. You have his eyes.

You have beautiful eyes, just like his.

Although an Elite Inspector and trained in martial defenses, Alan was not a violent man. He considered it the refuge of the weak - an option after careful consideration and then only as a last resort. Alan was not a violent man, but it still felt good to slam his right fist, the left dragged along by the handcuffs, into Sven's stomach.

A whoosh of air escaped the smaller man's lips as he recoiled from the blow. Yet the pirate recovered with surprising speed and left Alan - hampered by the cuffs - unprepared for the counterattack. Rather than strike back, Sven tangled his fingers into Alan's collar and slammed him against the wall. The whole side of the room seemed to shudder, but the act jolted some sense back into Alan, whose anger at last faded.

He looked into Sven's eyes, which were fierce rather than angry, and felt a wave of shame dissipate the last of his temper. A gentleman did not behave like this, and neither should an Elite Inspector. However much the other provoked him, nothing could justify such a reaction. Eyes averted to the ground, Alan's mouth firmed into a hard line. He felt his cheeks burning, and the human could not bring himself to look at Sven's face.

He wanted solitude so that he not suffer such humiliation in front of another, but when he tried to push the other off him, Sven did not budge.

No longer able to fight but unwilling to lose anymore face, Alan slumped against the wall and settled for muttering, "Don't ever compare me to Tristan von Volsung."

The smile he received was almost nasty and nothing like the silly grin that always played on Sven's lips. "Hmph. Even if you're too cowardly to acknowledge it, that's still your name."

Sven shoved him away, and he hit the wall once more and crumpled over at a painful angle. Sven did not storm so much as stalk out of the room, and the sliding door whispered closed behind him. Alan watched him go with uncertain eyes and felt something uncomfortably tight in his throat. It might have been fear in addition to the humiliation, but he could not tell.

The violent reaction his callous comment had provoked surprised him more than anything else. Even when highjacking that ship, Sven had used threats rather than actual fisticuffs to get him what he wanted. His easy-going manner made it easy for the inspector to forget what all pyrean pirates were capable of -- even the young stupid ones. Alan pressed his cheek against the cold wall to help diffuse the pain in his skull that had grown into something dull and throbbing. He felt guilty for his comments and angry at himself for feeling guilt in the first place.

Not for the first time, he wondered when he would finally go home.

***

No more than an hour passed before the ship deGated and the cabin door swished open again. Alan did not bother to raise his head, and he felt a booted toe prod his side.

"Hey, wake up."

He did not move, and the foot pushed harder. "I know you're not asleep, Alan," Sven said in a quiet voice. "You snore."

The comment made Alan's head snap up, and he twisted to glance over his shoulder with scowl clear on his face. "I snore?!" he demanded sharply. "You're one to talk, you lazy, inconsiderate, noisy..." his voice trailed off at the other's faint smile.

"Gotcha," Sven commented, "C'mon. We only have a little time before we reach a rendezvous point for the Popinjay, and I want to make it up to you."

Alan pushed himself back into a seated position, but his head remained lowered so he could watch Sven through hooded eyes. The pirate seemed more composed than when he had left, but his expression held an uncharacteristic seriousness as he waited for the human. For a brief moment Alan considered refusing the not-quite invitation but decided against it; the thought of Sven's anger still shook him.

"Will you uncuff me?"

Sven flashed him a cheery grin but it vanished in an instant. "I'd like to, but I can't," he said in an apologetic tone. "Even irresponsible captains have some rules to follow."

With that Sven grabbed his upper arm and hauled Alan to his feet. Even after the human had regained his balance, the hand did not release him but tightened just a little - perhaps in warning - before tugging him toward the door.

They walked in relative silence down the hallways and to a lift connected to an upper level of the Merry Swallow. Once they stepped out and began heading down a new set of corridors, Alan took care to examine his surroundings. The first and only time they had led him down these narrow pathways, he had been too dazed to pay attention. Now he studied the design of the arching doors to memorize turns and catalogue all potentially useful information for later consideration.

Every now and then he would glance at Sven from the corner of one eye and assess the pyrean. While he seemed calm enough, Sven remained determined if subdued, and he guided Alan with unconscious pressures and tugs on his arm. The human considered making a snide remark about the contact, but settled for something different but equally droll.

"Since when is a guided tour part of a prisoner's schedule?" Alan asked as they came to a set of closed double doors. Sven loosened his grip for a moment to punch in the access code before turning with a smile.

"You're wondering why I left my post on an assignment?"

"The question crossed my mind."

Rather than answer with words, Sven palmed the electronic latch and the doors slid open. When the pyrean gave him a gentle shove, Alan stumbled over the threshold and into the room. He blinked at the sudden darkness as he scanned the area before him. A dozen small and multicolored lights sparked around him in a semicircular shape, and as his eyes adjusted he could make out the sleek edges of control panels. Beyond them the ship appeared to drop away into cold, empty space - ultimate darkness broken by the chaotic scatter of a hundred thousand stars.

Alan turned to the captain, and even in the dim light he could see Sven's expectant smile. Against his will, Alan felt relieved by that hopeful expression. While Alan never understood or shared the other's positive attitude, he found that he brooded far more often when left to his own devices and away from the pyrean's company. Now that usual cheerfulness had returned, albeit somewhat lessened, and he waited for Alan's response. The human realized, turning back to the blackness, that he did not know the correct answer.

He ventured, "The universe is rather big, isn't it?"

Sven stepped forward to stand just behind his left shoulder, and Alan could imagine his smile in the deep shadows of the room. "No matter what you humans think, being a pirate isn't just about robbing ships or wreaking general havoc. You might have seen the Popinjay as just another pyrean nuisance, and us as more of the same, but...there's more to pirating than what you'd expect. I want you to understand that. I need you to understand that."

By angling his head, Alan could see Sven's bright green eyes fixed on him, and they almost glowed in the darkness.

"Then you must forgive me for disagreeing."

He thought he saw Sven's smile widen a fraction. "You disagree 'cuz you don't know any better. And you may be right about some of us. Some of us are probably in it for the profit and the prestige, just as there are probably Elite like that. But for me and my entire family - my crew - there's more."

Sven looked out the diamond-titanium glass, refined so that it became clear, and he wore an expression of awe. "The stars have always called to us. Ever since our first days on Pyre, they've called to us. We pyreans have an old saying - a human will find his answers in books, a ma'jenn in his homeland, but a pyrean will sail till the end of his days and never find anything beyond the journey."

As he listened, Alan shifted in discomfort. Sven wanted to show him something important, something personal, and the intimacy made him nervous. When he managed to speak, his voice came out more dry and sarcastic than he intended. "So the looting and destruction are only side benefits? You're just in it because you like up-close stargazing?"

A flicker of annoyance passed across the pyrean's face but a familiar, ear-to-ear grin quickly replaced it. "Close enough! I'd be happy to sail forever without a reason, but I've got to fund myself. And merchant pilots have such boring lives - go here, go there, buy this, sell that, over and over. At least pirates have some control over their destinies."

The human's eyebrow twitched. "That is one of the stupidest reasons I have ever -"

An explosion rocked the entire ship, sending both men pitching forward. Sven hit the window with a dull thud and a muttered curse, while Alan - unbalanced and restricted by the handcuffs - crashed to the ground with both knees. Throughout the ship, sirens began to blare shrill and piercing.

Sven's radio clip beeped with urgency, and he groped for it in the darkness. He did not bother to rise as he ripped it off his belt. "Bridge, status now!"

"They were waiting for us!" Valtra snapped back, and her voice hissed with static. "Those damn bastards cloaked themselves with our technology and we -" Another explosion sent her trailing off into a blistering string of expletives - Standard, United Pyrean and a dialect Alan did not recognize.

She continued, "Sven, we have to pull out now. There's no way we can search this area to see if the Popinjay is still intact. Most likely they've already been captured or killed. Captain, we have to abandon her."

A pause, and Valtra said again in a more urgent voice, "Captain -"

"All right," Sven snapped as he pressed his free hand against his forehead and covered his eyes. "All right! Get us out of here, Valtra. You'll remain in command until the next shift; I'll start drafting a report for Admiral Jiordson."

Even after shutting off the clip, Sven did not move as the 'Gate generators hummed and took them back into Hyperspace. He instead tilted his head to rest against the curved glass and let out a deep sigh. Alan rose to his feet and watched the other with something short of sympathy but something more than indifference.

This was not the same moodiness as when he punched Alan; this was sharper and colder, leaning toward despair. Alan knew he should feel disappointment as well - rescue lay painfully close at hand but had slipped away nevertheless - yet at the moment he found himself indifferent to the thought of freedom.

Sven moved, shuffling to his feet with the motions of a tired, old man, and the sirens at last shut off. The silence between them became deafening. As he palmed the door open, Sven muttered, "Dad will want this report to be perfect. Let's go, Alan. I have to get started."

As Alan moved toward the exit, he felt the ship deGate moments before another explosion hit the Merry Swallow. They both went down in a tangled pile, and the alarms began to blare for a second time. Although the force had knocked the breath from Alan's lungs so that he wheezed for air, Sven yelped as he wiggled free and reached for his radio clip.

"Bridge, report!"

Valtra did not respond, but they heard a string of cursing as she barked orders at the navigator.

After a moment, Ian's voice cut into the channel. "Engine room here. We miscalculated, kid. The 'Gate took us right into the heart of a meteor swarm. The ship can handle it, but we're not going to get through unscathed. Stay put, okay? We're -" A burst of static garbled his words and then cut the signal.

The captain regarded the communicator for an only an instant, before reattaching it to his belt. He found and held Alan's gaze in the darkness, his eyes intense and serious. "If I uncuff you, just for now, will you promise to behave? Because I'm not going to be here to pick you up if you fall again."

With narrowed eyes, Alan stiffened. Sven did not budge, did not take back the implied insult, and after a moment Alan swallowed his pride and nodded. "You have my word of honor, I will not attempt to cause problems while we are in this crisis situation."

Sven stared at him a moment longer, then inclined his head as he reached forward to tap a quick code on the near-invisible keypads by the inspector's cuffs. Something chimed almost musically, and they opened, allowing Alan to rub his wrists and try to ease the pins-and-needles sensation running through them. He remained on the floor as he watched Sven move back to the door.

"And where are you going now?"

Sven tossed a green-eyed glance in his direction. "What kind of captain would I be," Sven asked evenly, "If I stayed here and hid while my crew faced danger?"

The doors opened but when Alan surged to his feet, he promptly lost his balance and tumbled to his knees. It had been nearly two years since he last maneuvered around a ship under turbulence, and his body had almost forgotten how to follow the strangely buoyant rock and sway of the ground under his feet. His second try worked better, and he took a few cautious steps forward before slamming into the wall. He winced at the sharp jabbing pressure against his hip and tried not to imagine the bruises that would come later.

"Jiordson!" He yelled at Sven's back, while he shuffled as best he could after the pyrean. "Damn it, Jiordson! Please tell me we're not going to play at stupid heroics!"

Behind him there was a noise that sounded too much like shattering glass for comfort, and sirens went off a second time. This time they sounded different - shriller now and more desperately urgent. Something cold and sucking touched Alan's face like icicle kisses. When he inhaled, an iron band tightened around his lungs and made each successive breath come harder than the last.

He wasn't quite aware of losing his grip on the doorframe, but his entire body jerked like a cut-string marionette and he struck a gate of thin bars. Even as he noted the protective gate with relief, a part of him screamed with urgency that mere bars could not ward off all of space's dangers. The pressure in his ears had grown intensely tight and painful as if a vice rotated around his fragile human body and now pulled with unyielding strength. His fingers flexed against cold metal grating, and Alan found that the only sensation left to him was pressure. Pressure and fear.

There's more to pirating than what you'd expect, a voice recited in his head as the sirens become nothing more than a distant hum. Whose? He strained for the memory as black spots shredded his vision. Ah yes, Sven Jiordson. Stupid pyrean pirate, who did not understand that they were enemies and should act accordingly. The stars have always called to us.

Stars were pretty enough, he supposed, but not something that held any particular fascination or romance for him. Would it amuse that idiot to think of how his pet human had died among the stars, unimpressed and cynical to the end?

"Alan!" As if summoned by his thoughts, Sven's face appeared before him - green eyes dark with worry and set in a too pale face. Something closed around his wrist and Alan found his body yanked forward as a wiry arm looped around his waist. He could not tell if it held too tightly - the pressure on his throat already choked him by itself.

There was a keening noise in his ears, sharper than the sirens, and some of the tightness on his lungs eased. He instinctively gasped, chest burning at the sudden influx of air, and almost at once his vision cleared. Sven now dragged him down the hallway as air rushed past them - drawn by the pull of space. Again he could hear the sirens, but only faintly as the screaming air drowned out the rest of reality.

Still disoriented, Alan looped a hand around the pyrean's waist and struggled to regain ground with his own feet. His head drooped, and he felt exhausted as if space had pulled apart but only put him together halfway.

A sudden stiffness in Sven caught his attention, and he looked up with renewed alertness. They moved faster now, Sven running as best he could and somehow managing to keep them lurching along. Alan could see the reason for the urgency ahead of them as a set of doors slowly closed. Beyond the doors, red lights flashed in time with the heartbeat shrill of sirens.

Of course, he thought, as he finally managed to straighten himself - distantly proud of no longer being only dead weight. Emergency protection measures. Seal off the wound so that the entire ship can survive. Not even the pyreans have found a way to nullify the effects of pure space.

"...damn. We're going to die, aren't we?" Alan muttered as his head rolled onto Sven's neck, strength again fading.

Sven did not bother to respond, but Alan felt rather than perceived his sharp intake of breath and the glare of piercing eyes. And then Sven gathered himself and pushed, right hand outstretched, and they lunged forward. The human watched in half-sick fascination as the doors ground shut around the extended limb, the screech of disturbed metal more piercing than the sirens that shrieked just beyond.

A part of his mind noted that there was no blood and that was wrong - Alan knew that pyreans bled just as easily as humans and their bones were just as fragile. But there was Sven, glove torn by the crush of heavy slabs and hand unbleeding, as its owner swore and shoved his shoulder against the doors.

"One..." came his whispered hiss, eyes sliding half-shut with strain.

"Two..." Metal protested again, more loudly than before, and sweat beaded on the pyrean's forehead as his boots scuffed the floor for traction.

"Three!"

The doors opened for a heartbeat, allowing them the time to tumble forward to safety, and then they clanged shut behind them. At once the roaring swish of space became muted, barely a whisper over the rush of blood in Alan's ears.

Alan slumped so his shoulders came to rest against the doors that now protected rather than blocked. He passed a hand over his forehead as he tried to catch his breath. Sven lay sprawled over his legs, but he felt too exhausted to summon the annoyance necessary to kick him off. A minute passed and the sirens went quiet.

"I'm going to bed and not getting up for a week," a muffled voice announced, and Alan let out a harsh laugh as an involuntary smile crossed his lips. Then common sense reasserted itself, and he sat up and forward, dislodging Sven from his knees.

"Jiordson, we need to get you to a medic!" he said with sharp urgency and began to help Sven to his feet - careful to avoid the mutilated right hand that the pyrean cradled to his chest.

Sven looked more embarrassed and nervous than in pain as he moved away, turning his back slightly to Alan. "Ahaha, don't worry about it, Alan. I'm fine!"

"Let me see it!" Alan insisted, "Trust me, I've had some first aid training, and just because the shock hasn't worn off doesn't mean you're okay."

A look of consternation passed over Sven's face and he scooted away to conceal his hand further. If the human did not know better, he would have said that the other looked afraid of showing him; as if Alan had not seen the door grind his hand to pieces.

"No, it's okay - it's really not as bad as it looked, I promise -"

"No, Sven! If you hadn't stayed behind for me, you wouldn't have lost a hand, so let me do what I can for you. Please!" Alan realized his shout had a hysterical ring to it, but he was not in the mood for disassembling. "Just give me your hand!"

Alan lunged forward, and after a brief tussle, managed to wrap an arm around the smaller man. With his free hand, he grabbed Sven's elbow and jerked the pyrean's right arm. Even as he realized he had made a bad situation worse, the shredded glove slipped off enough to reveal part of the damaged hand.

Sven stiffened and ceased his struggling, and Alan unwound his arm so he could take Sven's hand into both of his. The human could only gape at what he held. The arm was real - he had no doubt about that - and he could feel the warmth of skin and a skittering pulse in the slender wrist caught in his grasp. Not even the most advanced biotechnology could truly emulate the texture and temperature of living flesh, and Alan had been trained to recognize such discrepancies.

Yet the hand beyond the wrist, where should have been shattered bone and torn muscle, instead was bent metal and melted plastics - delicate wires mangled and artificial skin tattered beyond repair. Rather than meet his gaze, Sven looked at some point beyond his shoulder, an angry blush sharp on his pale skin.

"How -?" Alan managed.

"An accident," The pyrean cut in with an acid voice. "It was a long time ago. Happy now? I don't need to see a medic, and you don't need to add any guilt to that already ridiculous complex of yours. I can have it replaced when we dock for repairs."

Alan's eyes narrowed. "You said you were captain of this ship, but that's a pretty severe handicap. Aren't a lot of your fighting and piloting technologies based on nerve impulses? Even the pyreans haven't figured out a way to make a mechanical hand feel like a real one."

"I was a pilot once," Sven shook his hand out of Alan's, "Now I'm a captain. Don't worry, Alan. I'm not as helpless as you think." He held up the crushed digit so that the broken finger twitched. "This is one of the newer prototypes on the market," he added in a more subdued tone. "You've seen me without my glove - did you ever notice that it wasn't real? Did you even guess?"

When Alan shook his head, Sven continued, "Yes, you need to have working nerves in order to control the smaller fighters in our fleets. The problem is that our best pilots always end up on the front lines, so they also receive the most damage. It's very inconvenient to lose a crack sharpshooter just because he or she can't feel the ship as it responds to commands.

"So with this," he turned his hand over, so that it faced palm up. "I can sense most pressures, and there are wires that connect directly into my arm, which allow me to 'feel' temperature."

"If you can feel pressure then..." Alan twisted in place to look at the doors he now leaned against. There was a large, lopsided circle where the two halves met - warped from Sven's unyielding hand. "You felt that, didn't you?"

Sven winced but managed a smile. "Heh, well yeah. Mechanical or not, it still hurt like a bitch." The smile faded into something more earnest as he reexamined the fake hand. "But I think this is beyond repair, and captain or no, these things are expensive. They're usually reserved for our aces, and I only got this model because of my family name - because of my father and sister. I really don't deserve a new one."

Alan's head sank. "I'm sorry," he blurted out. "Not just for the hand, but for striking you earlier. And for the comments I made about pyreans. I was completely out of line and acted in a most base and juvenile way. I ask for your forgiveness, if you will give it to me."

Rather than answer immediately, Sven regarded him with a quizzical expression and cocked his head to the side. At last he decided in his usual cheerful voice, "I don't understand you, Alan, but it means a lot to me. If you want my forgiveness, you can have it."

Alan raised his head and a faint smile turned the corner of his lips. With a solemn nod, he pushed himself to his feet and offered a hand to Sven. When the other accepted it with a bemused expression, he hauled Sven to his feet and noted, "A human foible, I'm afraid, but I thank you all the same."

A bright smile rewarded his comment, but that only flustered him. Alan withdrew his hand and pushed past the shorter man as embarrassment made him unable to meet Sven's eyes. As he moved down the hall, the pyrean jogged to catch up then fell into the taller man's stride.

He began to whine, "Ian's gonna kill me. These things aren't cheap and who knows how much damage the Swallow sustained? Every day resignation sounds like a better idea. Fate must really have it in for me; why else would I be so unlucky?"

The human twitched. The moment had passed, and all seriousness had left Sven; he had shrugged off the entire near-death experience as if it meant nothing. It seemed that everything passed like air - in, out and forgotten - through the damn pyrean. Not for the first time, Alan wondered how someone so stupid had reached the rank of captain.

"Shut up, you stupid deckswabber!" He snapped and couldn't help swatting Sven. "You whine as much as a girl!"

As he rubbed the back of his head, Sven shot an injured glare at his companion. "What was that for? And I do not!"

***

Ian waited with patience as the parts dealer - a grizzled and elderly man of indeterminate origin - calculated the cost of repairs. Sif and the boys were already back on the ship and running the final diagnostics, but Ian felt grateful for the brief moment of calm in the otherwise hectic last few days. The Merry Swallow had experienced more damage than usual, and a gloomy pallor hung over the crew for their failure in rescuing the Popinjay.

Yet even those feelings had begun to fade as anticipation replaced sorrow. Sven was currently receiving a transmission from Admiral Jiordson, and Ian and the others hoped to learn the fate of the Popinjay and Alec Laismann at last.

"Ian! Hey, Ian!"

Dealer and engineer looked up as a figure topped by a shock of pale violet hair skidded around the corner and almost collided with a merchant. Only nimble reflexes and youthful energy prevented an accident and Sven spun out of the way before streaking into the office. There was a bounce to Sven's step that suggested better news than expected.

The captain waved his now-intact gloved hand like a weapon and almost smashed it into a hanging terminal. He seemed quite proud of himself, and Ian couldn't help an indulgent smile.

"Ah, Sven," Ian's smile widened. "The first report went well, then?"

Sven practically beamed. "Alec and most of the crew were captured, so the fleet is working on an exchange for them. But it's not so bad. Now that we know about their latest jamming technology, a detection program is being distributed through the fleet. The Elite won't have one up on us for long."

The dealer returned with clipboard in hand and he grinned in response to Sven's beaming smile. "Yer captain looks a fine lad, Torrens. Ye're a lucky man, no doubt about it."

"I know that," Ian murmured as he crossed his arms. "Jiordsons can be troublesome, but they have their redeeming qualities too."

"Eh? What does that mean?" Sven looked from Ian to the dealer with a confused and slightly suspicious expression.

"It means, here's the bill, lad." The dealer tore the top page from his clipboard and handed it to Sven. Ian lit a cigarette then calmly covered his ears as the Swallow's captain widened his eyes in horror.

Sven's voice echoed - ringing and hysterical - through the back rooms and out into the ship hangar itself. "I can't bring a bill like this to my dad! He's gonna kill me!"

Everything is back to normal, Ian thought with a rueful shrug as Sven's cries continued to ring in his ears. Without a backward glance he left his captain to the dealer and bill alike and walked away - back to the shuttle and back to his ship.

Back home, he thought with a long drag from his cigarette.

And that was enough.

--end-