"Here's that infopad you wanted, sir. Fresh from the central computer."

  Rorik scudded to a halt with a huff. He hadn't done anything this commandy for a while, and had directly interacted with more people in the last hour than month. Discounting firefights.

  A stream of infopads, handshakes, and nods that made the words: sensory overload, fall short. Like a clubfooted geriatric on a slick flight of stairs.

  This newest culprit was a male Vice Lieutenant. Tired yet alert, disheveled and overtly dedicated. With short brown hair and a mustache that'd make a pornstar blush. His nametag obscured by a tall stack of silver infopads.

  "Appreciate it," Rorik clasped the offered device, almost jealous of the eagerness in the boy's eyes. "Going anywhere near the engine room?"

  "Yes, sir. After I drop off the essential documentation. If, that's okay?"

  "Sure. When you're done grab the diagnostic readouts from Kara. We’re taking off sooner than later."

  "Uh, who's that again, sir?"

  "Commander Daffern. She'll be the bitchy one with dark hair and a chip on her shoulder."

  "Oh, her? Yeah, had a run in earlier actually. A loud one. It wasn't at all...pleasant."

  Rorik smirked, then stepped past him into the command alcove, one finger gliding across the pad's smooth screen. The outer hall led into a segmented room with tight corners and three dedicated sections. Tactical. Strategic. Operational. Each stocked with workstations designed to enhance long-term planning and research.

  The infopad itself detailed the routes of the other six vessels attached to the mission. Each assigned their own swath of space. Employing Bloodhounds. Frequency backtracking. Anything at all to make the endless void a tad smaller.

  And yet, they still might be out there a long time.

  Maybe shit would hit the veritable fan before they returned? Their mission reduced to a big waste of effort. After all, MacDuff had vastly understated the strife between The Kinhold, and then some. The grouchy old bastards were just a split atom shy of a nuclear explosion.

  Hell, maybe they'd go to war the second the Gizotso broke atmosphere?

  "Well, get it right!" a familiar, and very irate voice yelled from up ahead. "Thermionic energy isn’t a joke! Go check the manifold intakes on Deck-2. And please, pay the fuck attention this time!"

  "Y-yes, ma’am!"

  Vice Lieutenant Juna rounded the corner in a sprint, nodding at Rorik in passing, metaphorical tail tucked between her legs.

  On the other side of the Operational junction, Cassandra was hunched over a console with a woman Rorik didn’t know. A sea of projected graphs hummed in concert above their heads, bathing the room in a soft orange glow. At the center was a mapping basin full of inert nanites, and along the cramped edges sat various trilling consoles. Some short, some tall, some fat, some thin.

  The unknown woman shared Cassandra's bronze complexion and chestnut hair. Could easily be one of her many sisters, she had at least seven, maybe more. He’d yet to meet any of her family, and from the ridiculous stories Cass has told him so far...

  Rorik wanted to keep it that way.

  "You don't have to be so blunt with Juna. She's young and working very hard," admonished Cassandra's potential sister.

  "If she’d routed a gigajoule more to the GEG, Section 82B might've imploded. The excess gravity would’ve pancaked everybody into gelatinous viscera. And no one would auto-regenerate from that."

  "But she didn’t route a gigajoule more to the GEG, and Section 82B didn't—"

  "She almost did."

  "But. She. Didn’t."

  “Want me to route the power right here? Cause I’ll fucking do it!” Cassandra harshly barked, but then almost immediately let out a weary but genuine laugh. "Say one more word about it, I double-dog dare you."

  “I don't know what canines have to do with anything? But I'll heed the threat. Just in case.”

  Rorik crept up behind them with careful steps, still too consumed with their work to notice the faint shuffle of his boots. Or perhaps too overwrought. Cassandra's figure—full and beautiful—even in the nondescript uniform lit an ember in his eyes, a flicker of heat behind his zipper.

  He'd been on Avansen a lonely month too long.

  “On deck!” he shouted.

  They spun on their heels, knocked over a few empty coffee mugs as they snapped to attention, holding the pose for two glorious seconds, before Cassandra tried to strangle him with her squinted eyes.

  "You insouciant asshole!"

  "Literally no one but you knows what that means."

  He laughed as Cassandra snugly leapt into his arms. Warm, welcoming, and sorely missed in a way that truly surprised Rorik. Her tongue kamakazied into his mouth before he knew what hit'em. They stumbled around into consoles, knocking even more stuff clattering to the ground. A blur of moans, lust, and limbs.

  She must've missed him or something...

  This thing between them was still in its infancy. Shallow when it came to its depth, yet wide as an ocean with passion. Not love quite yet, but something real nonetheless.

  "Um, hello? I do hate to intrude, but this is, well, perhaps the word awkward fits best?"

  Their mouths lingered a rebellious moment, then slowly parted with audible reluctance. Both frozen in place, their skin hot with excitement, until Cassandra brushed gently at his chin.

  "I'm not sure how I feel about the beard."

  Rorik stared into her coppery brown eyes, kissed her nose, then set her down.

  "Good thing I didn't ask, huh?"

  There was a smirk on his face, but inside the potency of his feelings continued to catch him off-guard. It wasn't gushy or anything ridiculous like that. But dangerously close. For him, anyway.

  Cassandra cleared her throat, mildly ruffled, but unashamed. "Uh, Priya Maiyan, this is James Rorik. Been meaning to introduce you two, but my life is stupid and complicated, so."

  Rorik clasped Priya's hand, giving her the old once-over, more habit than inspection. Her features were gentle but alert, long hair swept into a bun, pupils a rich brown with the soft focus of an intellectual.

  "So you’re Maiyan, huh? Was planning to swing by your lab, make sure the cloner was up to snuff before we got too far. A tin can full of hungry wolves is a recipe for disaster."

  He nodded as he relinquished her grip. "Pretty impressive, being that high up in the nerd, uh—Sciences' Division at your age."

  "Yes, sir." Maiyan flashed a small smile. "A regular prodigy, with all the headaches that come with it."

  She unplugged her intangidisk and slid it into an overcrowded front pocket. On cue, the airborne projections fizzled away with a rhythmic chime.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "But no worries, we’ve enough pallets of H-Rations in case of emergency, and the cloner’s in excellent condition."

  "Good to hear. But I’d be a horse's hairy ass if I didn’t check. With it being so important. Mind giving me a quick tour?"

  Maiyan's face lit up, like a kid eager to show off a toy she'd gotten for Christmas. "Of course, sir."

  "Good."

  He looked back into Cassandra’s eyes and caught a flicker of something underneath her lively excitement. A twinkle? No. A spark really.

  One he hadn't seen in a long while.

  "The bridge is yours, Lieutenant Zervas. Mind getting my ship off the ground? While we go check out the cloner?"

  Cassandra beamed, pearly whites as perfect as the rest of her, then snapped back to attention with a lazy salute.

  "Sir, yes sir."

  The doors parted with a hiss when Cassandra stepped out the command alcove, James and Priya headed the opposite direction. Down the rear hall that split into four at the end of its considerable length.

  The bridge was dim, but not dark. Its rectangular viewscreen the main source of non-ambient light. A rustic circular chamber with stations along a wide brim. Ceenav, scanner, tactical, comms, etc. Each a clutter of cobalt glowscreens that shimmered from within recessed, chirping consoles.

  And at its heart sat the captain’s chair, a cushioned throne that almost looked divinely lit. Armrests both rounded and smooth, leather fabric shiny and new.

  She ran a hand down her jacket’s zipper. An old childhood habit. Then moved toward the helm with a little extra pep in her step. Uncharacteristically cheerful, to say the least.

  Cassandra knew James had everything to do with it, but wouldn't allow herself to fully admit it. Not yet. Like her father she was more stubborn than a mule. Couldn't be helped. She'd tried many times before. Maybe, before the day was over, she'd muster the courage to face her budding feelings—

  Something took the wind out of her sails. Made her stop on a dime. Kicked her right in the metaphorical nuts.

  Someone, actually.

  Cassandra didn't recognize her, seated near a port-side console. Out of uniform. Pink leather jacket unzipped with her boots kicked up. Twin handguns, heavy and ornate holstered at the hips. 1911s—if Cassandra correctly recalled. Ancient motherfuckers. Though history, while important, held her attention the least.

  Regardless, this insubordinate clearly'd thought the bridge was a glowvid set. And needed a firm hand to convince her otherwise. She let out a boisterous chuckle, crudely joking with the ceenav officer, Davidson, who was struggling to simultaneously laugh and do his job.

  Cassandra's hands crackled into vengeful fists, ready to bury the poor soul under a mountain of extra-duty. But, Priya's earlier point came to the rescue. How she'd handled Juna, while warranted, wasn't entirely ideal. And then there was the hallway incident too. Her anger had been a little too easy to rile lately. And often ill-placed.

  Knowing when to yell, and when to talk separated a leader from just another asshole. So, like a big girl, Cassandra took what little patience she had and held it tight. Lest it slip through her fingers.

  Most of the crew was fresh and young, annoyingly so. They deserved the slightest benefit of the doubt.

  “Excuse me?” she called over, firm but level. “Weapons aren’t allowed on the bridge. And I'm going to have to ask that you change into uniform. We’re taking off.”

  The woman didn’t so much as glance at her.

  “Excuse me?” she parroted instead, twirling a dark strand around her finger. “I’m talking. I'd like to cordially invite you to go fuck yourself.”

  The room emptied of sound like a sudden decompression.

  Cassandra blinked, not quite trusting her potentially traitorous ears. Then smiled slow. Not angry. Not amused. Just mildly...wolfish.

  She stalked closer at a tortoise's pace. Around her, the bridge crew hurriedly found better ways to occupy themselves. Random consoles, bootlaces and gig-lines, and the many ceiling panels above. Anything at all.

  “Going to pretend my hearing’s going." Cassandra chuckled, a cold sound coiled with tension. "But you will change, and take off the guns. End of discussion. This isn’t the Wild West and you're not John Wayne.”

  Davidson hunched forward when she stopped behind him. Damn near kissing his glowscreen.

  “Oh, I know. Lived through The Wild West. Horrible time. Clothes were all itchy. Beans for every meal. And everything reeked like the inside of a horse's festering ass.”

  Cassandra frowned, confused as to why someone would bother lying about their age when—

  Oh. Of course. She should’ve guessed.

  Except she always pictured her with eight heads and a forked tail.

  Kara Daffern, seeing the recognition on Cassandra's face, glossed her over curiously in turn. Emerald eyes bright and annoyingly unbothered. She had a ruggedly angelic aesthetic to her, the kind that asked for—no—demanded attention. The kind of woman that had probably never tried to be beautiful, but couldn't fail at it either.

  “Oh, I see.” Kara chortled without an ounce of humor. “You must be Cassandra? James' new squeeze?”

  “I heard you were busted down before being sent away, so that’s Lieutenant Zervas to you.”

  “Aw, you're adorably annoying.” Kara stretched out her arms, breathe minty from a piece of gum. Her lips host to a sideways grin, shoulders slumped, cool as a frozen cucumber. “I like your hair though."

  "Thank you. Now, why don't you go change into uniform and we can discuss—?"

  "Had a mangy spaniel with that color once. Except he didn't have so many split ends.”

  Cassandra resisted the urge to punch Kara right in the jaw. Barely. Everything said so far was unacceptably insubordinate, but ultimately innocuous banter. Far beneath the need for violence despite the temptation.

  Plus, if the stories were true, a fight probably wouldn't go entirely her way. A notion that hurt Cassandra's pride more than anything.

  Already she could sense something off about Kara—The Devil's Slit by reputation. There was a pressure, some sort of weight to her presence that ground the gears of Cassandra's soul.

  Or maybe it was her smile that irked her? Voice?

  ...an irrational jealousy involving James, perhaps?

  “Let’s not do this,” she finally said.

  “Do what?”

  “Pointless posturing. Tough-girl talk. The Bitcholympics.”

  Kara’s grin widened like she’d found a new chew toy. “How else are we gonna get to know each other?”

  “The less I know the better.”

  “Shame. Here I was hoping we could be besties? Girlfriends. Two peas in a pod?”

  “Uniform,” Cassandra repeated with an edge. “Now.”

  “Your tone was sorta amusing at first.” Kara found her feet smooth as smoke, calm defiance etched into every pointed word. “Not so much anymore. Whatcha gonna do if I refuse, little girl? Write me up?”

  “Be on latrine duty before your gum loses its flavor.”

  Something flashed behind Kara's keen eyes. Deadly. An innate hostility that only strengthened as she steadily leaned closer. Scented breath warm and shallow.

  “Been reinstated as Commander. Only thing you'll do involving me is making sure my coffee's hot, and staying out my way. And don't you even think to take my love for James as weakness. I will fuck you up if you cross me.”

  The air thickened. Heavy. Charged. Like the preamble to a terrible cosmic storm. All eyes were on them now. And while Cassandra couldn't win per say—being supposedly outranked and outmatched—she couldn't lose either. Her authority was on the chopping block of the bridge crew's perception.

  “MacDuff’s where James got a lot of his good habits. Can see now where he picked up the bad," she shook her head. "Whatever, do what you want. Just remember these are the Kinhold's regulations, so I'd play ball whenever possible. Unless your eager for another round of exile when we return?”

  Kara stared for a tense eternity it felt, face blank, not at all deterred by the veiled threat, before she burst back into laughter. Unfiltered with a sprinkle of mania as she brushed past, headed toward the rear hall. Like the whole starsdamned galaxy fit in her back pocket.

  “Like I said. Adorable. But fine, I’ll go put on the costume,” she said over her shoulder. “Kinhold be damned though, I’m simply nice like that. A team player. Better be some hot Joe when I get back.”

  Cassandra let out a low breath as the calamitous cunt disappeared around the corner. Not quite a sigh, but more akin to a valve releasing pressure.

  “Show's over. Initiate final checks and get us in the air. Now."

  The crew nodded quietly, then moved. But underneath the newfound bustle, and charging engines, a residual tension lingered in the air like mist.

  This was far from over.

  That exchange had been relatively civil, but a collision course was inevitable. Cass could feel it in the marrow of her bones. Wasn't all that surprised either, since MacDuff had even said as much, but she thought'd it would take a day to hate one another.

  Not a minute or two.

  Cassandra plopped into the captain’s chair, sank within its soft embrace, then lazily waved over an unoccupied crewman.

  "Yes, ma'am? What do you need?"

  “Go pour out the coffee pots, please.”

  “Uh...which ones exactly, ma’am?”

  “All of them.” She flashed a mischievous smirk, an expression weighed down by days of exhaustive preparation. “Start with this deck, then work allll the way down.”