“There are numerous irregularities on this list, Warleader,” Admiral Bandar said.

They were underway, traveling at sublight-speed to the jump node from which they would transition to faster-than-light-speed. Ol’ Stone-Heart had wasted no time once inside their luxurious new command suite with its direct access to the bridge. She’d closed the hatch before scouring the database of the Pride’s motley crew: their names, planets of birth, ages, ranks, past and present assignments—the sum total of everything he and Zurykk had been able to squeeze out of them.

Finn prayed there was more fact than fiction. With the luck of the gods, she wouldn’t decide to send one—or several—of his people back to the Ring. Or all of them.

She wouldn’t dare, not with Zaafran overseeing them. Not with their skeleton crew. Would she? Nonetheless, he understood the logic of wanting to know her crew and having the final say.

Franklin Johnson, the Unity’s Terran second officer, sat across the desk from the admiral. He was friendly and physically fit, with deeply tanned skin and short black hair. Although hailing from a backward world, he’d taken to the ship’s smart chairs as if born in one. How the Terran had mastered it so quickly, Finn had no idea, but he envied the man’s relaxed position with his legs crossed at the ankle.

Johnson could afford to relax. His short list of Terran crew had already been approved. In contrast, Finn paced, arms folded, while Bandar tapped one fingertip against her chin.

Her dark brows drew together in a frown. “You may as well sit, Rorkken. This could take a while.”

“When the smart chairs on this ship stop being stupid, I’ll sit.”

“They uploaded your prints, right?” Major Yarew asked. “At Headquarters?”

The Coalition-bred chief of security made it sound so easy. “Aye. Three times. And rebooted the system after the second try.”

“Then all that’s left is setting up your preferences.” Bandar observed him with those cool green eyes. “Hard or soft feel and a quick response—or maybe you prefer slower and smoother. Everyone is different. What do you like?”

Hard and fast or slow and smooth? Gods. In his mind, they were naked, and she was breathing those questions in his ear. He caught his thoughts but not before he saw the flash of heat in her eyes, alarm and that damned pain chasing it away. Heavens knew what she saw in his eyes if that was the reaction he conjured in her.

Her attention was back on the gods-be-damned personnel list before he let out his breath. There was no denying the sexual pull between them—or that they both found it damned inconvenient. He rocked on his heels and pretended that he wasn’t battling sexual fantasies starring his former nemesis. “I’ll stand.”

“There are details missing from your security officer’s records. Battle-Lieutenant Bolivarr. Is there no given name? Or is it his surname that is missing?”

Bandar so quickly zeroing in on the inconsistencies didn’t bode well for keeping Bolivarr on the payroll. “I don’t think he even knows for sure, Admiral. I found him out cold on the streets on Junnapekk Station, a mining world in the Haydes Belt. He’d been stripped down to his skivvies and beaten—I believe left for dead. If it hadn’t been for his nano-meds, his wounds would have killed him. He had a concussion, broken jaw, and hemorrhages from internal injuries. No weapons, no ID, except for ink—Wraith tattoos.”

“Imperial Wraith tattoos?”

“Aye. He says that he served the warlord but can’t remember any of it.”

“Amnesia then.” 

“Partial. He recalls some things and not others.” 

“How convenient,” she said dryly.

“Wraiths are like Coalition REEFs—Robotic Engineered Enemy Fighters?” Johnson tried to follow along. “Only without the bio-engineered structural enhancements?”

“None that we know of, Commander,” she said. “However, their mission was to kill, not defend. Wraiths are assassins, trained as masters of deception and survival for the former warlord. Even their own military fears them. Yet”—her focus shifted back to Finn—“you took him in, no questions asked.”

“Oh, I asked questions all right.” With Bolivarr, though, there were always more questions than answers. “He gave as much information as he could, but it wasn’t much. He requested asylum, and I granted it. We were shorthanded. We’d lost a few people in the months prior, and I figured, if he lived, I could use the extra man. If I hadn’t helped him, no one else would have. He would have died.”

Bandar remained unmoved. Sympathy wouldn’t win her over, that much was clear.

Finn grabbed the back of his chair. Sensing his touch, it dipped precariously, and he let it go. “Admiral, he may have been a Wraith, but he says that he deeply hates the dead warlord and the empire. I believe him. I believe him about the amnesia too. I’m good at reading people—I can spot a truth or a lie in a glance. It’s served me well. Bolivarr deserves to be part of our crew. He’s been nothing but a model officer and a source of calm in crisis. His knowledge of Drakken espionage will be an asset to our mission—once he remembers it.”

Bandar tapped her fingertip against her chin, and he had the feeling that she was contemplating him as much as Bolivarr. Mulling over his assertion that he read people well? Maybe worrying whether he could read her as easily.

“Indeed, your Wraith might be of use to us, hunting strays in the Borderlands.”

“Our Wraith,” he reminded her.

“No. Yours, Warleader. I will hold you fully responsible for him and his actions on this ship.”

“There won’t be trouble, Admiral. I gave you my word.”

“When you report to the ship’s physician, bring Bolivarr with you. Let Doctor Kell know his history and run a full scan for improperly healed bones, brain damage, and the like.” She closed her data-vis. “That is all, gentlemen. Let us proceed to the briefing room.”

Finn nearly reached for his chair again. “So they’re approved. My crew. All of them. Even Bolivarr.”

“Don’t act so surprised or I’ll be alarmed enough to make another pass of the database. Who knows what additional irregularities I might find?”

He chuckled, although he wasn’t certain that she was joking.

“It’s time for the all-hands briefing, gentlemen.” She rose to her feet.

Her executive officer, Lieutenant Keyren, joined them outside the meeting room, where inside Coalition, Drakken, and Terrans each sat clustered together. Empty seats formed a border between the groups. Although they’d changed into Triad uniforms, Finn’s crew still stood out with their Drakken jewelry, tattooing, and hairstyles. At least they had bathed and wore clean clothes.

One step at a time.

Everyone shot to their feet as they entered.

With a quiet, confident gait, Bandar bypassed the raised podium to stand before them at eye level. He and Johnson flanked her, all three of them together. It was a statement—no one could miss the symbolism.

“Yesterday,” she began, “we were Coalition, Drakken, and Terran. Today, we are Triad. Today, we have made history with Coalition and Drakken serving together for the first time since the Great Schism.” She paused. “On the TAS Unity.”

Finn hadn’t forgotten her scorn when she’d first addressed him. He alone knew her real thoughts about the Drakken presence: “I’d rather cough up blood.” Yet her professionalism didn’t even hint at those personal opinions.

“The whims of terrorists may have altered our launch, but from this moment onward, the only terror will be in the hearts of those who defy us!”

Enthusiasm from all three groups greeted her, including some too-loud-for-polite-company whoops from Finn’s crew. He shot them a warning glare.

Bandar’s steely gaze swept over the gathered men and women. “Recent events have illustrated that not everyone agrees with the vision of the Triad Alliance, with some going to any length to bend us to their will. In our society, all citizens have the freedom to disagree, so long as they don’t harm others. You, ladies and gentlemen, have the freedom to disagree—but not about the Triad Alliance and not while under my command. You are either with us or you are not. I will not stand for dissension on my ship; I will not tolerate it. If you cannot serve under these conditions—if you feel unable to work alongside Drakken, Terran, or Coalition—speak now, and I will have you transferred back to the Ring. It will not reflect negatively on you.”

Her tone was neutral. “Go on. Now’s the time to make your feelings known. No reason to feel ashamed. In fact, your honesty and courage will be admired.”

The seconds crawled by. No one moved so much as a finger.

“Very good. I will now administer the Triad oath of office. Raise your right fists and repeat after me . . . ”

When the oath concluded, Finn straightened, flicking a speck of dust off his fancy new epaulets. He sizzled with pride. Rorkken, you’ve finally made something of yourself. He’d never known his mother—or his father, for that matter—but he imagined that if she were looking down from Up Above right now, she’d be proud.

“Attention!” Bandar’s executive officer called out. Reading from a data-vis, she rattled off eight names. “Please come forward.”

Finn froze. Those were his people. Every last one.

From her seat in the audience, Zurykk glanced at him uneasily. Rakkelle swaggered to the front, casting hot glances at anyone looking—and there were a lot of looks. The other seven followed: his mechanic’s wife, his engineer’s niece, the husband of one of his cargo handlers, and some refugees he’d hired after the war had ended—two of them accused deserters who had escaped detention. Civilians, all.

A sinking feeling consumed Finn. Surely, Bandar didn’t intend to dismiss them on the spot, although doing so would be well within her rights. He’d been prepared to defend their presence, but she’d said nothing. After her acceptance of Bolivarr, he’d assumed his civs would be allowed as well. They’d even been issued uniforms.

“Line up and stand straight,” he hissed as the group fidgeted and sweated under Bandar’s scrutiny. Even Rakkelle flustered as the admiral circled them, her manner as cool and composed as stone—her namesake.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you heard us take the oath of office to serve the Triad only moments ago,” Bandar said. “You may have even recited the oath alongside us. But words alone do not make you a member of our armed forces. The Unity isn’t authorized to assign nonmilitary personnel to military billets. As civilians, you cannot stay on my ship.”

“I’d like to discuss this,” he said, low and measured. 

“What’s to discuss? You know the rules. They’ll have to enlist if they want to stay.” Bandar turned to the eight as Finn stared in shock. “I assume you’re all willing to do so.”

They answered in the affirmative a little too loudly.

“Yes, Admiral,” Finn gritted out, reminding them of proper decorum.

“Yes, Admiral!”

Lieutenant Keyren stepped forward, cupping a stack of patches in her hands. Within moments, seven of the eight wore the Triad rank of spacehand apprentice on their sleeves. Then Bandar turned to his pilot. “Rakkelle Pehzwan.”

Perking up, Rakkelle jumped forward, landing in front of the admiral.

“Your situation is different. You’re an aviator. In our military system, aviators are always officers, but I can’t make you an officer without training.”

Rakkelle looked suddenly smaller and underfed. Like a sad stray. This gig would have been an amazing stroke of luck for this girl without any formal pilot training—barely out of her teens and taught by brigands who had been willing to let her fly their ships in exchange for gods-knew-what in return.

Her defeated gaze widened as Bandar fastened two narrow red, black, and blue epaulets to her shoulders. “Cadet Pehzwan, your academic and military training will run concurrently with your service aboard this ship. Should you prove worthy, you’ll be commissioned with the Triad rank of ensign second class.”

Rakkelle whooped, pumping her fist.

“Pehzwan—stand down!” Finn yelled.

Johnson’s jaw dropped at the spectacle, and Zurykk shook her head. Bandar’s lips compressed, and Rakkelle blushed.

“Sorry, Admiral. Sorry! I’m just so—so freepin’ happy.” Rakkelle met Finn’s furious glare and snapped to attention. Somehow, she even remembered to add a salute. “Thank you, Admiral. I’ll prove worthy of my promotion. I will.”

“I expect no less.” Bandar returned the salute and dismissed the eight. At their seats, a rowdy contingent of Drakken welcomed them. Zurykk and Bolivarr worked to quiet the group but not before winning dark looks from some of the Coalition crew. A treaty wouldn’t erase centuries of bad blood overnight.

Speaking of bad blood—why hadn’t she informed him of her plans for his civs? She had to have known that the solution would please him. Was she intending to leave him out of the loop for the rest of the voyage?

The instant that the briefing concluded, Bandar exited the room, but he caught up. “A word if I may, Admiral.”

“Yes, Warleader?”

“I didn’t know that you were inducting my civilians.”

She lifted that blasted brow. “You don’t agree with my decision? They seemed happy enough.”

“It was your making it without my knowing that I don’t agree with. I was sure that you were going to kick them off the ship until you pinned rank on their shoulders.” He didn’t miss the surprise in her expression at his disapproval before the chill returned. He might be a fool to confront her before they’d jumped clear of the Ring’s control zone—where she still had the opportunity to remove him for insubordination—but as much as he hungered for this job, he had no intention of performing as a figurehead. He had his pride—as an officer and a man. “I want to thank you for what you did, especially for Rakkelle. I’m grateful and so are they.”

“It was not done as a favor. This is a warship. No civilians are allowed.”

“You could have sent them on the last shuttle back to the Ring.”

“We’re shorthanded.”

He exhaled. He wasn’t going to win this one. She was refusing to accept thanks for her kind act. Did she not want to be caught showing mercy to one of his kind? Yet giving eight Drakken civilians what amounted to battlefield promotions fell under the definition of compassion, whether she admitted it or not.

“Thank you for sharing your concerns, Warleader.” Her voice was calm but strained. The way she held her hands, clasped tightly and pressed to the small of her back, was another sign of tension. Former street urchin, pirate, and warleader Finnar Rorkken missed little in body language. He never would have survived so long otherwise.

“They’re more than mere concerns. I’m the second-in-command on this ship and your first officer. Of Drakken origins I may be, but I intend to more than square-fill some politician’s postwar, we’re-one-big-happy-family checklist. When we work together, the crew wins. If neither of us knows what the other is doing, the crew loses, and this ship will be nothing less than chaos.”

“Chaos . . . ” She waved a hand at the corridor that was filling noisily—noise that came from mostly his people. “You’ll feel right at home then, yes?”

Finn grimaced, his irritation now directed at the Drakken. “Aye.”

“There’s something that will require our working together, Warleader. Ship discipline. Military decorum.”

Warleader, she kept calling him. Finn wondered if her continued use of his former rank was on purpose or an accident.

“I’ll make sure they learn some manners.”

“Without threatening to kill or maim them, I trust? I need them able-bodied.”

He sensed a definite shift in her mood. Was dry humor her way of deeming valid his concerns over joint decision-making?

“Don’t look so surprised, former Scourge of the Borderlands. I well know pirate methods. Years back, I captured quite a few of them, trying to get at you.”

He flattened his hand over his chest. “And look—you got me without even trying.”

“I’m still analyzing the irony,” she drawled.

“So what will it be for me, Admiral? Brig or bridge?”

“Don’t tempt me.” She shot him a wry, sidelong glance, almost a smile.

Gods be. He’d actually gotten Stone-Heart to respond positively to his teasing. Perhaps there was hope yet.

They boarded the lift to the bridge where they would prepare for the launch. A charged silence filled the small compartment. Standing in that confined space, he was acutely aware of her—and she of him. Of that he was certain. He thought of what had happened between them in Zaafran’s office and the secrets her eyes had revealed. Again, he wished he could take back that moment.

No, you don’t. Maybe they’d have a drink together one night, and she’d tell him what—or who—was in her thoughts when she looked at him like that. It was the way of Drakken—drink and tell. Drink and—

Gods, are you out of your mind, Rorkken? She’s Admiral Stone-Heart. You can’t bed her.

But a man could dream, couldn’t he?