Alan rested his chin on the heel of one hand, frowning as he scrolled through the datatexts he'd pulled up. His earlier hunch had been correct--Ian Torrens' former ship was one well-known to any higher-level student.

The Crimson Raptor, captained by General Hildegarde Jiordson, famed for her military genius throughout her short career. Her name was considered with respect even among the ranks of the Elite: she was one of the youngest pyreans ever to reach the rank of general, being only fourty at her death, twenty-nine years ago. One of Alan's professors at the Academy had flown against her--a grizzled gray-haired man whose eyes had actually gone wet in the middle of the lecture, sternly warning his students that if any of the pyrean dogs did not deserve their reputation, it would be her.

Hildegarde Jiordson, eldest child of Admiral Sebastian Jiordson, also well-known to any Elite Inspector worth his salt. Hildegarde, who'd gone down with her ship in the traditional pyrean fashion--the Raptor had been attacked by a guerrila ship and destroyed.

Only two survivors remained from that famous ship, returning to carry the tales of her death: Ian Torrens, the Raptor's first mate--and Sven Jiordson, Hildegarde's younger brother, registered civillian at the time.

There was a photovid in the files, of a tiny scrap of a boy more than halfway hidden behind Torrens' greater bulk, staring at the camera with disturbingly huge green eyes. Just when he'd thought there was no way for the man to look even more pathetic ...

... Well, at least he knew why he recognized the name now. Alan thumped his head gently on the desk a few times, then kept it down on his folded arms, nursing his growing headache.

He'd made the connection between Admiral Jiordson and the Swallow's captain weeks ago. None of the crew members made much of a secret of the fact--but neither did they make a big deal of it. And they certainly didn't treat him with any more respect for his noble bloodlines--though neither he nor his sister acted like they came from such a prestigous family ...

He remembered one morning when Natalia had come barreling into the room, tackling her brother off the bed, chattering a long stream of words that had ended with a cheerful extortion for money. Sven, groggy and still more than half-asleep, flopped like a landed fish until the girl had spied his wallet and lunged for it, skipping out of the room. Her brother was left flat on his back, twitching slightly and gurgling until Alan dropped a pillow over his face to shut him up.

Actually that was just a few days ago.

Actually, it was something of a weekly occurance. Sometimes Alan wondered why Natalia kept needing the money, and remembering his own sisters at that age, decided it was better not to ask.

He lifted his head again, resting his chin on his folded arms. Despite his flashes of competence, Sven Jiordson was nowhere near the level of his older sister. And though he seemed cheerful enough about that, he'd already proven several times before that he was not easily read.

Perhaps, somewhere deep down, he reall--

The door swished open. "Ow ow ow ow ow! Eric--OW! Bad--no! No! No claws! OW!"

Alan contemplated banging his head again, and decided that his headache didn't need the extra help. Sometimes, it was hard to figure out why he bothered wondering. Pyreans were surface creatures who rarely saw the need for emotional secrets.

Sven yelped and the doors closed. "Hah! Thought you could escape, huh? Gotcha--OW!"

He straightened in his chair and turned in time to see Sven hopping on one foot a moment before he lost his balance and fell. He hit the ground with a particularly loud thud, and Alan winced, rising out of his chair. "Jiordson, are you--"

"Owchie," Sven whimpered. His eyes were glazed. "That was my back."

Alan sat back down again, this time on the bed. Eric clambered up beside him, looking as smug as a lizard could. "Yes. Yes, that was."

Sven twitched fingers and toes and then lay still, moaning from the back of his throat. Alan slid one foot out and prodded him in the side, which earned him a twitch and a squeak.

The doors to their shared quarters slid open, and Ragnar stuck his head inside. His eyes were wide and his black hair dishevled, as though he'd run the entire way from the bridge.

"I'm doomed," Sven muttered.

He was crouched in a corner of his room, heedless of the wrinkles it was leaving in his uniform, tracing spirals on the floor with the tip of one finger. One could practically see the little stormclouds forming over his head, and the temperature seemed to drop sharply in the immediate circle around him.

Alan, still seated on the bed, shook his head. "Only you," he said, "would have forgotten the 'no prisoner' policy you pyreans follow. You should've gotten rid of me long ago."

Sven's head turned slowly, his green eyes faintly bloodshot over the folds of his sleeve. He blinked several times, and then his forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Shuddup. I don't do that sort of thing."

"Well," Alan said, completely reasonable, "you should've thought of that before you took me prisoner."

The pirate lifted his head slightly, lower lip stuck out in a blatant pout. Then he turned and thunked his forehead against the wall several times, repeating "I'm doomed, I'm doomed, I'm doomed," under his breath each time.

"Honestly, Jiordson, you--"

The door opened. Ian was standing there, dressed in his usual long shirt and black slacks, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He eyed the two of them with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged.

"We just got the opening hail," he said. "Sven, you should probably be there to meet your parents when they arrive."

The younger pyrean looked up, blinked several times, and blanched. "IAN! What are you wearing?!"

"Huh?" Ian looked down at himself, then shrugged again. "It's clean. So?"

"SO?! WHERE'S YOUR UNIFORM?!" Sven was bouncing in wide circles around Ian, tugging alternately at his sleeves and the sweeping hem of his shirt; one could almost see his panic levels rising through the roof. "Ian, my dad is about to get on this ship and he's going to see you undressed, and I'm going to die."

Ian rolled his eyes, then reached out and snagged Sven by his uniform collar and lifted him a half-inch off the ground. "Sven. Listen to me."

A loud whimper answered, matched with piteous eyes.

"Your dad's used to me, okay? I'm the most senior officer on this ship. We're eccentric; we're allowed to do what we want. Smart captains know better than to argue." He put Sven down gently, then gave him a firm push down the hallway. "Now hurry. Natalia's already there, and it's embarrassing to run in at the last minute."

Sven pouted, then lunged up and snatched the cigarette from Ian's mouth. "At least," he said, "keep those outta sight, okay?" And he dropped it under his heel, grinding sharply twice--

"Hey!" Ian protested, "That was a perfectly good cigarette!"

--and took off, leaving the smashed cancer stick lonely on the ground. Ian let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like "stupid kid," then looked at Alan.

"What about you, Volsung?" he said. "You gonna stick around here? Or has the kid found a place to stash you?"

Alan shrugged and looked at his feet. "I guess I'm staying here," he said, "unless one of you has a brilliant idea. Jiordson forgot I was even here."

"Nah, he didn't forget." Ian leaned in the doorway and fished a new cigarette from his pocket. "At least, not that you were there. He likes you. It's just that he's also gotten used to you--and the fact that you're human has become meaningless to him."

Alan's mouth twisted slightly. "Meaningless, huh?"

"For someone like him, yes." Ian produced a lighter from somewhere and lit his cigarette. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, turning his head back to Alan with a faint smirk, gesturing with the lit end. "Make no mistake, the kid doesn't underestimate you. But I told you--he likes you. So the fact that you're not pyrean kind of passes over his head."

"Ah." Alan sighed. "He's very...forgiving. Most humans aren't."

"Honestly, most pyreans aren't, either." Ian straightened. "You'll see, when you meet the admiral. He's not a bad guy, just very set in his ways. Don't worry, though; he won't do anything."

"And why not?" Alan leaned back slightly, raising one eyebrow. "I'm a human, and I'm a prisoner. I really shouldn't be here at all. Surely the admiral, of all people, is qualified to take steps."

"He is," said Ian. "But he won't. He and Sven fight a lot, but he won't throw his authority around on his son's ship without damn good reason. And besides--" a quick, almost missed smirk passed over the engineer's grizzled face, "--he knew your great-grandfather."

Alan twitched. Ian gave a casual wave over his shoulder. "Good luck," he said, and the doors closed.

Alan was still for a moment, then put both hands to his temples and rubbed slowly. His headache from before was returning, this time withdouble the force. He looked over at Eric, who was coiled by his side and staring mournfully at the closet where Sven had locked his beer and magazines.

"You get used to them after a while, don't you?" he asked. A part of his brain pointed out that perhaps talking to a chain-smoking iguana was not the best way to make himself feel better and he ignored it steadfastly. "Don't you?"

Eric tilted his head to one side, then snapped his mouth a few times.

Alan sighed. "I was afraid of that."

***

Sebastian Jiordson was a broad-shouldered man, slightly shorter than Ian, whose dark purple hair was heavily shot with gray. His beard wastrimmed into a neat goatee and he had an eyepatch--a souveneir from his youth as a pirate captain. On his arm, his wife Idel was a composed vision in pale blue silk, and her paling brown-blonde hair was swept up in an elegant curl tied at the base of her neck. In her free hand, she held a small paper fan, etched with patterns of blue and gray.

She was smiling. The admiral was not.

They were accompanied by four other pyreans, two of whom Sven recognized as admirals, the other two presumably being generals.

Sven stood with his back straight and stared straight ahead, Valtra standing quietly behind to his right. She would be the Lady Jiordson's personal escort and bodyguard while on the ship, as she was technically Natalia's.

(Though Sven knew from exeprience his sister could take care of herself. She kicked hard, especially when she really wanted to make her point.)

It was difficult not to fidget. The uniform, pressed crisp and new, was a little too big and itched across the back in all the places he couldn't easily reach. He tried to focus on that, instead of thinking about what to say. It was when he worried about things that they came out all garbled.

"Admiral Jiordson," he said evenly, "Lady Jiordson. Welcome to The Merry Swallow."

"Captain Jiordson," the admiral said, with the same unruffled calm, "thank you for hosting us. We apologize for the short notice, but the ma'jenn threat waits for no man."

I'll bet. Sven bit the inside of his cheek, but he turned and gestured down the hallway. He was careful to not let his annoyance bleed into his voice. "This way, sirs. Milady Jiordson, perhaps you'd be more comfortable with my sister, Lady Natalia--?"

Idel laughed softly behind her fan, then unhooked her arm from her husband's and swept forward. "I do believe so," she said, "but first let me see you." She took his chin in hand and tilted his face up, studying him with pursed lips.

"You should eat more, darling," she said. "And when you do, you should eat more healthy. Don't think I don't know about all that junk food you're sneaking."

Sven blinked, then ducked his head, blushing. "Mom!" he hissed. "Later, okay? Later! Go with Nat--I've got a conference to take care of!"

"Oh, phff," she said. "There's nothing wrong in wanting to take a good look at you first. You're still my son, even when you're playing at dignified gentleman."

"Mom!"

"Idel," the admiral said. There was an edge in his voice that could easily be annoyance or amusement. "If you don't mind?"

She gave a dignified sniff and released Sven's face. Before he could give any kind of sigh of relief, she swept him up in a perfumed hug that was very tight for its demure appearance. He blinked.

"Try to keep your temper, Sven," she whispered into his ear. Her lips barely moved. "Your father wants this to go as smoothly as you do."

"Maybe," he grumbled back. She swatted the back of his head lightly, then let him go.

"Milady Jiordson?" Natalia stepped forward, twisting her hands before her. She looked uncomfortable and awkward in her bulky lavender-silk dress, but she mustered up a hopeful smile for her mother. Behind her, Valtra waited unmoving, and her dark eyes met Sven's for a moment, quietly sympathetic. It made him feel a little better--if his father did kill him, at least Valtra would take care of his funeral. "If you'd come with me?"

With all the grace and poise of years of breeding, Lady Idel Jiordson swept away from her son and took her daughter's hand, leading them down the opposite direction. Valtra followed after a quick backwards glance and mouthed "good luck."

Sven watched the three of them disappear, mentally shaking his head as he smoothed the rumples in his coat, before saying, "Uhm--this way please, sirs."

As they walked, Admiral Jiordson fell into step beside his son, hands tucked behind his back. The silence between them stretched long and uncomfortably, punctuated by the sound of their footsteps.

"So," Sven began, watching his father from the corner of one eye, "Admiral Jiordson, sir, will you be inspecting the ship after the conference?"

The admiral blinked--for a moment he actually looked surprised--then nodded. "Yes, Captain, I believe I will."

"I see." Sven's voice was neutral. In his head, he was panicking all over again. I've got to hide Alan somehow and star dust I don't have any excuse for having him here, and Dad's gonna kill me I just know it--

He palmed the door open. I'm so dead.

Aloud, he said, "After you, sirs," and gestured, waiting to file in last.

***

Alan was reading a book when the door opened. He looked up, and found himself confronted by three pyrean women.

Two he recognized immediately--Natalia and Valtra, both impeccably dressed for once, which made him only more consciously aware of his relative state of undress. There was little point in wearing his suitcoat around the ship, and so he was wearing a plain white shirt borrowed from one of the twins, his usual black pants, and boots. Sven didn't really care, so, as Ian said, it was sometimes easy to forget other people did.

The third lady he recognized only halfway: her eyes and facial structure were familiar, though he'd never seen her face itself before. Coupled with his remembered images of the admiral, it was easy to see how her children--and her daughter especially--got their looks. She wore a flowing long dress of pale shimmering blue, hiding her mouth with the edge of a paper fan. One of her eyebrows was lifted into an elegant arch.

"Ah," Alan said, and blinked a few times. Natalia looked on the verge of freaking out, and Valtra was looking between him and the lady, and one could see the gears whirling in her head as she tried to figure out an excuse.

"So," said the lady, in cultured smooth tones, "this is my son's room."

"Ah," Alan said again, for lack of anything else to say. "I--"

"Mama, we can explain!" Natalia latched onto her mother's arm and tugged. "You see, this is--"

"Alan Baringer, my lady," said Alan, getting to his feet and bowing low. Lady Jiordson's blue eyes were piercing over the serrated edge of her fan, and like her son, her face was difficlt to read. "It is an honor."

"Baringer," she said thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. That's how Tristan's granddaughter married. Yes, it is an honor. Idel Jiordson, to your honor." She extended her hand, allowing Alan to take and bow low over it. Her fan fluttered several times, and now he thought he could detect a spark of humor in her gaze. "So, you're the latest stray my son has adopted."

Alan straightened, face deadpan. "My lady?"

She shrugged and finally moved her fan aside; her pale mouth was bowed in a faint smile. "Sven likes people." Then she looked at her daughter, who was blinking at them with confusion, and Valtra behind her, who looked as though she was trying very hard not to laugh. "Natalia, dear, you should be more considerate as a hostess," she chided. "You could have at least warned me."

"Ummm." Natalia blinked, smoothed her skirt, and grinned weakly. "I thought...er...you might like the surprise?"

"Surprises are for the young, like you," her mother said grandly. She turned, glancing at Alan over her shoulder. "Will you be remaining on board for long, Sir Baringer?"

"I--"

"He's staying for a duration," Valtra said, stepping forward, so that she was halfway between Alan and the pyrean noblewoman. "He's agreed to tutor Sven in his swordsmanship, so we're hosting him for a while. It's just temporary."

"I see," the lady said, in the sort of tone that implied she did see, and much more than what was being said. Alan cringed. "Tutoring, hm? Well. I'm glad that Sven is taking steps to further his education. Please teach my son well, Sir Baringer."

"I, uh--" Alan cut himself off after one sharp glance from Valtra. "I will do my best, my lady."

"Good." Idel Jiordson took several steps back towards the door, then stopped and turned back, snapping her fan shut. She leveled it Alan like a weapon, and her eyes were blazing fierce, lit with the power of maternal concern.

"And you be nice to my son too," she said ominously. It seemed for a moment she was far greater than the room would allow, towering over Alan like a warning of disaster. "If you break his heart, I will certainly be taking steps--and a mother's instinct for protecting her children is no laughing matter, even for you human noblemen."

She only lacked lightening crashing behind her, to give her words that final crack of doom. "You will treat him well, or you will answer to me. Do we understand each other, Sir Baringer?"

Alan took an involuntary step back, eyes wide. "Er. Y--ye--yessir, ma'am. Um. My lady."

And then, abruptly, her dark trappings faded away. Idel snapped her fan open and fluttered it by her cheek, smiling pleasantly. "An honor to meet you, Sir Baringer," she said airily. "Please give my regards to your father and mother, when next you see them."

She breezed out of the room, leaving her daughter and escort staring in open-mouthed shock. Alan shook his head, then choked suddenly, his face flushing pink.

"It's--it's not like that!" he protested, but she was already gone. He looked pleadingly to Natalia and Valtra, who still didn't look quite over their shock. "You have to explain to her. Jiordson and I...it's not like that! Really!"

Natalia continued to blink, but Valtra snorted, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head. Though she looked at Alan with sardonic sympathy, her grin wide and unrepentant. "Well. Now you know where they--" she nodded to Natalia, who was finally beginning to recover--"get it from."

Alan covered his eyes with one hand. "Dear God. You'll never let me live this down, will you?"

"Of course not," she said cheerfully, then hooked her arm with Natalia's. The girl blinked at her. "C'mon, Nat, let's go chase down yer mother before she finds out anything else she shouldn't."

As the doors closed behind them, she looked back at Alan, and gave him a smirky thumbs-up. "Have fun with Sven," she said, her voice laced with innuendo. Alan's color deepened, but before he could protest, the doors shut and he was left alone in the room with Eric. He rubbed his face and turned, and found the iguana seated on Sven's desk, blinking owlishly.

"I'm doomed, aren't I?" he said blandly.

And Eric snapped his mouth.

"Damnit."

***

I'm doomed, I'm doomed, I'm completely and absolutely and utterly DEAD--

The conference had broken earlier than Sven expected, and the other officials had filed out to return to their ships. It had been more of a debriefing than anything else--in five standard days, the Swallow would rendezvous with three other ships for a relatively basic hit on a ma'jenn trading caravan; until then, they were to keep their eyes open. The ma'jenn were on friendlier terms with the pyreans than the humans--but that wasn't saying a whole lot.

The "threat" came more from politics, which Sven regarded as a necessary evil. Although the ma'jenn Empress wielded absolute power with her people, there were growing factions that wanted to end the pyrean dominacy of space, by eradicating the pyrean navy's Piracy Branch. Sven avoided inter-race politics, so thenuances of the repercussions often went over his head, but he understood danger to himself and his crew, and remained silent as his father spoke.

"The Empress is getting old," Admiral Jiordson had said. "Sooner or later, she will step down, and her grandson will take over. When that happens, the ma'jenn as a whole will be thrown into conflict to win the right for his ear--they will be at their most aggressive, and their memories are the longest of all the races. They'll be dragging insults from their first dynasty to use as fodder against us."

Now, he stood by the window, watching stars drift by. Sven stood at the opposite side of the room and tried hard to not let his fear show.

"I understand," his father said at last, "that you're keeping a prisoner on board."

That was it--the statement and challenge to defend himself. Sven took a deep breath to calm himself, and said, with a calm that was more than halfway feigned, "Yes, sir. I am."

Admiral Jiordson sighed, and Sven couldn't help twitching. This was something he remembered from his childhood--the, "you're disappointing me" sigh that most parents mastered and that his father had turned into an art form. "And you're aware that standard procedure is to either kill or place all prisoners in planet custody?"

"Yes, sir."

"And this isn't just any prisoner you've snagged for yourself." The admiral turned slightly, so that the sharp line of his profile was reflected in the window. His blind side was facing his son, and even with his crisp uniform and neat appearance, he seemed old and tired. "Alan Von Vosung, also Alan Baringer, great-grandson of Tristan Von Volsung. According to the transcripts, he's already tried to escape once. What were you thinking, Sven?"

Sven took a deep breath. "He had information, sir," he said. "And he carried Drachewuden in plain sight. It was cause enough to be suspicious."

"Cause enough, perhaps," the admiral said, "but to keep him for as long as you have? He's a member of the Elite, son. There are humans everywhere searching for him. They call us the 'dogs,' but you know that once their teeth are set in, they won't give up."

"Yes, sir."

"You have to deal with him, Captain Jiordson." And the admiral turned to him fully, face grim. "He's both a burden and a danger to your ship and your crew. Pyreans don't keep prisoners. You must get rid of him."

Sven pressed his lips together, then lifted his chin. "There's no actual regulation that states we can't keep prisoners," he said thinly. "And, because Alan is an Elite, it's safer to keep him aboard a ship that constantly moves around, rather than on some planet-bound prison. The best cage is the one that is difficult to locate."

His father said nothing. Sven went on, his voice gaining strength. "This is my ship, Admiral--as long as it is my ship, I will decide how things are run. Unless you care to make it a direct order, Alan Baringer remains. Sir."

The admiral jerked his head up, but quickly suppressed any signs of anger. After a pause, he sighed again, but this time it contained an edge of wry laughter. But when he turned to face Sven, his one green eye was solemn. "You know, your mother worries about you. Both of you. She doesn't want what happened to Hilde to happen again."

Sven relaxed slightly. He almost smiled. "I know what I'm doing, Dad," he said quietly. "Alan's given his word that he won't escape again. And I believe him."

Sebastian shook his head. "You're willing to risk not just your life, but your crew's and your sister's, for the sake of his promise?"

He met his father's gaze evenly. "You don't know him, Dad. He's a good guy. Maybe he's a bit confused about everything, but he's a good guy."

The older pyrean's mouth quirked slightly. "And you'll stand by that?"

"You know I will."

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, and this time his chuckle came outright. "Maybe you're growing up after all, boy," he said. "Just...be careful, all right? I've worked with Baringer's great-grandfather. That family's got a streak of whimsy a parsec wide."

Sven cocked his head and blinked curiously. "Meaning?"

His father shook his head again. "Tristan was, well, strange," he said. "He took the whole idea of living for the moment to the extreme. Sometimes, I think he married that woman just to piss the rest of us off."

"But it worked, didn't it?" Sven asked, as they left the conference room side-by-side. "I remember you used to fight with Hilde about him a lot."

The look Sebastian gave was quick, sidelong, and thoughtful. "I did," he agreed, "but that was about something else. And he is an honorable man--if his great-grandson is half of what he is, then you have nothing to worry about."

Sven grinned. "That's what I've been saying, Dad. I'm not always flying blind, you kn--"

An explosion rocked the Swallow, cutting him off mid-sentence.

***

"Sir, we've had a transmission from the attacking ship," Ragnar said, as Sven and his father entered the bridge. "The ma'jenn wish to negotiate with the highest-ranking official of the conference." His fingers were flying over the keyboard, and he was frowning. "I don't think they're aware that Admiral Jiordson is onboard--"

"I'll talk to them," Sebastian said. Sven frowned.

"No you won't. Sir. This is my ship--if they know you're here--"

"I don't see how we have much of a choice, Captain," his father cut him off. "The ma'jenn are aware that there are higher-ranking officials than you here. Let's not risk their temper by trying to play them for fools. Put them through, Officer Ein."

"Sir." Ragnar shot Sven an apologetic look as he did. Green eyes were narrowed at his father's back, but he kept whatever protests he had bitten back.

There was a faint chime, and then the viewscreen snapped on with a shot of a young ma'jenn male, dusky-skinned and with long white hair and deep violet bangs. He was dressed in the concealing black robes of a higher-level magician and frowning slightly.

"Admiral Jiordson," he said levelly. "It is an honor."

The pyrean nodded, his hands clasped loosely around his back and one eye calculated-serene. "Indeed. And who do I, in turn, have the honor of addressing?"

In the background, Sven was talking to Ian: "Haven't we seen something like this in a movie before?"

And Ian hushed him: "Maybe, maybe not. Be quiet."

"I am Corandisham," the ma'jenn said. "I serve her honored ladyship, Elantira the Fifth."

There was a low murmur through the Swallow's crew. The admiral pretended not to notice.

"A direct servant of the Empress herself," he said calmly. "I'm impressed."

Corandisham inclined his head, acknowleding the compliment. "We must, you understand, demand your surrender," he said calmly. "You are in our space, and we of the ma'jenn do not endorse pyrean piracy."

"Piracy?" One dark lavender eyebrow shot up. Behind his father, Sven swallowed hard. "That's a rather absurd charge, don't you think? This is a simple adjoining conference--and I believe, if you check starmaps, we are currently in neutral territory."

"Your maps are out of date, Admiral Jiordson." Corandisham smiled thinly, displaying two rows of sharp teeth. "Pyreans are not the only nomads. Wherever we of the ma'jenn go, becomes our homespace."

"Even so," the adimral said, "to open fire on unassuming ships and then to accuse us of piracy is quite hypocritical. To more hotheaded individuals, it could possibly be construed as an act of war."

The ma'jenn laughed. "We are always at war, Admiral Jiordson," he said, still smiling with all his fangs exposed. "The ma'jenn and the pyreans, the humans and pyreans, the ma'jenn and the humans--all of us."

"Is that so?" The admiral's face was bland. "I thought there were treaties drawn up between our people, at least."

"Treaties for trade, yes," Corandisham said. "And for safe conduct through certain areas of stretch. But the ma'jenn are honorable: we do not condonethievery. We are quite prepared to take all of you into custody by force if necessary.

"Well, Admiral Jiordson?"

He turned slightly, tilted his head up as though in thought, then looked back at the viewscreen. The smirk that crossed his face put men, years younger and pirate or no, to shame.

"A black hole take you, mutt-dog," he said. "Officer Ein, cut connection."

Ragnar was grinning. "Yessir."

There was another faint beep, and Corandisham's outraged face fritzed out, replaced again with a dark viewscreen. Once it was gone, a few cheers rang out, and Sven regarded his father with open awe.

"Dad, you just--"

"Got us into quite a bit of trouble," his father finished, then grinned. "But it was good to say. The ma'jenn take themselves too seiously at times."

Another explosion hit the ship, and Sven winced. "Um. This time, at least, I've got an excuse," he said blandly. "For the repair bills," he added, at his father's blank look.

The admiral rolled his eyes. "Boy, that's not the thing to be worrying about right now--"

"Hull breached, Captain," said Ragnar, his eyes scanning the monitors. "The ma'jenn are moving in, looks like."

"Got one locked in sights, Captain," said Wulfe. He was grinning fiercely as his name, anticipation sparking in his eyes. "Permission to fire?"

"Granted." Sven tapped his chin thoughtfully, resting one hand on the hilt of his rapier. He looked at the expectant faces of his crew, most of whom were grinning eagerly. Even Ian was smiling, just a little.

"Well, guys," he said brightly, "shall we go greet them?"

***

The door opened as Alan was about to leave, bringing him face-to-face with Valtra. "What's going on?" He demanded, then cut himself off as she thrust his sword at him.

"Time to earn your keep, boyo," she said with tightly-forced amusement as he fumbled briefly with the weapon. "Because I promise you, the ma'jenn aren't gonna be half as nice to you as we were."

"What--"

"You heard me, Volsung," she said, glancing down the hallway. "We're officially under attack, and there's been a hull breach. We've got random ma'jenn wandering the halls--I don't think they'll be coming this far down, but you are coming with me, and they--" she pointed to Natalia and Lady Jiordson--"are staying here in Sven's room."

Natalia bounced on her heels, an unladylike scowl twisting her face. She tugged on her mother's sleeve hopefully. "C'mon, Mama, I want to fight too--"

"Absolutely not." Idel punctuated the last word with a sharp sweep of her fan. "You're a civilian, and you're staying out of this."

"So is Alan, technically," the girl wheedled. "But Valtra's taking him."

"That's 'cuz he knows what he's doing," Valtra said dryly. "He's civilian to us, but he's still Elite. And unlike Sven, he really does know how to use that overgrown knitting-needle of his." She shot him a wry glance. "Right?"

Alan calmly belted his sword on and stepped into the hallway. "It was humliating enough being captured once," he said blandly. "I'm not looking forward to repeating the process with the third race."

"Good boy." Valtra grinned, then shoved the still-protesting Natalia into the room, then stepped aside to let her mother follow. "Be good, Nat. Tell ya what, let's say you're staying back to protect your mother, okay? Think of the scandal if something happened to her. Okay? Okay."

And she palmed the door shut in the girl's face, punching in a quick keylock. "That'll probably hold long enough," she said critically. "Nat's not really that good at hacking. C'mon, Volsung--we're going to miss the party."

He raised an eyebrow at her, with a faintly wry smile on his face. "Lead the way, Lady Valtra," he said, gesturing grandly. "I'll be right behind you."

She rolled her eyes. "None of that now. C'mon."

They took off down the hallway at a run.

The second level, where the hallways split and led to either the bridge, the engine room, and the cafeteria, were crowded chaos. Valtra dove into the melee with a gleeful battle cry, never looking back as she drew her gun and used it as a physical weapon. Alan paused for a moment longer, drew his sword, and blinked.

"Tell me again," he said to the lady who was no longer standing beside him, "why you needed me? It looks like you're all doing just fine."

No one answered him. He didn't really expect them to.

A long, curve-blade sword came whistling at his head; he blocked instictively, blinking at his opponent in surprise. In the past, he'd had very little experience with the canid third race, and he couldn't even tell if the black-swathed creature in front of him was male or female. (He would guess, judging by its slightly smaller size and slender shape, that it was female.)

"Um--"

"I do not need the words from a human," she snapped. "Words will not let you escape your responsibility."

She swung again, and the battle was joined. Whether he liked it or not, Alan was committed. He had a moment to be grateful for the tutoring sessions with Jiordson--at least they kept him from getting too rusty--and then there was no room or space to think, just the slice and parry of the fight.

***

The ma'jenn were, if nothing else, persistant bastards.

The pyreans were winning, damnit, if only those idiots would realize it. Sven set his lower lip between his teeth and smashed his elbow into one ma'jenn's nose, cringing when he heard it crunch unpleasantly.

He didn't want to beat these guys up--but they just wouldn't leave already. The count was something like twenty to three, pyreans' favor.

When were they just going to get the hint?!

Sven paused for a moment, scrubbing the back of one wrist against his forehead. He was starting to get tired--not that he'd ever admit that, of course, but he could feel the beginning pull of tension in his muscles. He hoped it would be over soon--it was hard fighting in dress uniform, and he was beginning to regret having it on.

Of course, a more reasonable part of his brain pointed out, you didn't know you were going to be attacked. What would Dad say if you greeted him in a T-shirt and jeans?

Shut up, he said back. I'm busy right now.

And now you're talking to yourself. That's not healthy either!

Hey, you started it! Now go away, I'm--WAAAH!

Air whistled sharply past one pointed ear, clipping a few pale strands of hair. Sven yelped and dove out of the way, hitting the deck with a loud thump. He rolled out of the way before a knife sliced down where his head had once been, and kicked out sharply. It managed to knock his opponent off his feet, and Sven scrambled out of the way before the other could regain his bearings.

As he was scrambling to his feet, a sharp, clear whistle pierced through the noise of the fight. It was loud enough to make him wince and scrub at his ears, muttering sourly to himself.

The effect on the ma'jenn was much more noticeable.

Every single one of them, even those in the middle of a fight, froze in place, their heads swiveling to the left. The whistle came again, louder and more insistently commanding. Leaning against the wall, Sven watched the ma'jenn faces--there were varying degrees of surprise and anger and disappointment, but under that was unquestioning loyalty.

Then, as a whole, they began to retreat. The wounded were gathered up by their companions, and the pyreans stared after them, too surprised by the sudden change of heart to pursue.

Huh. Whistle, and they came running. Sven scratched his head. Weird. Maybe on some level, they were as canine as they looked.

He straightened, swinging his arms a little, and looked around. "Everyone okay?"

"Mostly," Valtra answered. "We've got some nicks and cuts around, some serious bruising--and I think Ulrich isn't gonna be seeing outta his eye anytime soon."

The long-whiskered pyrean grinned cheekily at Sven; his left eye was beginning to swell shut, cushioned in a spectacular bruise of mottled violets and blues. "No problems, Cap'n," he said cheerfully.

"I think Lance ended up with a broken nose or something--but Dirk pulled him out as soon as he got hit in the face, so I'm not sure. You'll wanna check up with Keiko later. I stashed your mother and siser in your room--"

Sven grimaced. "Crap. Valt, if Mom finds Eric's magazines, I'm dead."

"--he's your iguana, Sven, deal. Other than that, I think we're fine."

"Yeah, yeah--Dad?" He looked around quickly, then raised his voice. "Where's my dad?"

"Over here, Jiordson."

Sven turned his head and blanched. Alan was standing next to a sprawled Sebastian Jiordson, calmly inspecting his sword. The admiral looked rumpled and not a little bit annoyed, but otherwise unhurt. Sven yelped and almost tripped over his feet in his mad dash over.

"Dad! Star dust! Are you--I mean, crap, Mom's gonna kill us both! Are you okay?"

"I'm quite fine, thank you," his father said a bit stiffly. There was a wry tilt to his mouth. "Young Volsung here is quite handy with his blade."

"I know that, but ..." Sven blinked up at the human. "What happened?"

Alan shrugged. "Admiral Jiordson was a bit distracted during the fight," he said smoothly. "I simply made sure that 'distracted' didn't equal dead or taken hostage."

"Oh. Daaaaad?" Sven glared at his father. "I'm telling you, Mom's gonna kill us both if she finds out--"

"Which is exactly why she's not going to," said Admiral Jiordson. Then he sighed and dropped the more formal approach, running a hand through his graying hair. "See, Sven, your mother worries for a reason. Even the best of us have an off day." He shot Alan another wry sidelong glance. "For example, the whole concept of pyreans not taking prisoners ..."

Alan's examination of his blade faltered.

"... in the light of what's happened today, it would be awfully dishonorable of me to ignore that and continue insisting that he be 'dealt with.'" Sebastian waved off several offers of help and got to his feet himself, smoothing wrinkles out of his uniform. Sven rocked back on his heels, then turned to look at Alan with wide eyes.

"Hey, Alan, y'know what this means?"

Alan paused in the process of sheathing his blade and blinked. "No. What?"

Sven's grin was wide and toothy; he sprang to his feet and tackled Alan in one sudden motion, catching him by the arm and swinging them both around. "You're a HERO now!"

"I--er--I am?"

"Yes you are!" Sven peered up at him, beaming through his mass of pale bangs. "Look at that, you're a genuine pyrean hero! Betcha none of your Elite buddies could ever say that, huh?"

"I'm. A. Pyrean. Hero." Alan began to twitch a little, hands twitching in and out of fists. "A pyrean hero."

"Yup!" Sven grinned. His good mood was almost--but not quite--contagious. "How's that for something to add to your resume?"

"Jiordson, you--"

A heavy hand clapped on Alan's back, cutting off his words in a sharp grunt. He looked up and saw Ian grinning down at him, dark eyes glittering amused.

"Congratulations, Alan," he said. "You'd do your great-grandfather proud."

Alan dropped his head with a loud sigh. There wasn't much sense in arguing --pyreans were notoriously good at not hearing anything they didn't want to.

"Fine," he said, rubbing his face. "Whatever you say, Jiordson. Whatever you say."

***

Dear Sir,

Today, I had the dubious pleasure of meeting Admiral Sebastian Jiordson face-to-face. He, unlike his son, is a studious, polite, and dedicated individual, who respects his responsibilities and performs his job to the best of his ability. Yet he too seems to have the pyreans' characteristic devil-may-care behavior, hidden well under a more professional veneer.

During the course of my stay aboard The Merry Swallow, I believe I have gained a number of insights to the pyrean character.

While humans plan and worry for their futures, pyreans are content to let fate decide their courses of action. Even so-called military conferences are nothing more than vague outlines, where captains and generals devise a broad strategy for that quarter's battle plans, from which they decide the specifics themselves.

As a nomadic race, pyreans rarely keep in touch with one another directly. Captains have almost unheard-of authority in times of crisis. Sven Jiordson is far from the leader that his sister was, but sometimes one must wonder if he realizes more than he lets on. When I inquired what he intended to do for the coming quarter, he informed me that he would "figure it out as I go along."

Ridiculous as it seems, this is exactly how pyrean politics seem to work. One would think such a system would quickly fall apart --but as universally recognized, pyreans are second to none in technology.

However I find, the longer I am amongst the pyreans, the easier it is to forget the stranglehold monopoly they hold in space travel. Over time, their idiocy becomes almost charming, so that a man might actually be fooled into letting his guard down around them.

Over time, a man could let himself begin to think like them.

I believe further investigation will be necessary before any solid conclusions may be drawn.

--end--