Hadley matched Admiral Bandar’s swift pace, making notes in her data-vis as they discussed the day. As on the Vengeance, they used their time in transit and the locker room to take care of business. Working out was a favorite pastime of Admiral Bandar’s, who preferred lightball but enjoyed hard workouts in general. Afterward, she always seemed more at peace. Hadley hoped that this time would do the trick. The admiral hadn’t been herself. Perhaps the stress of a mission that she didn’t particularly like was taking its toll. Being torn from a loyal crew that she’d come to know and trust couldn’t have been easy—like with Star-Major Madras. Hadley’s last glimpse of their former first officer had been his shocked expression at the bad news.

“I’m being replaced to satisfy a quota?” he’d blurted out with a disbelieving laugh.

Bandar’s expression hadn’t flickered. She’d revealed no hint of her personal opinion. “Lest we forget, Star-Major, we serve at the will of our government, and this is their decision. Please reach out to me at any time to brainstorm the merits of your options for future assignment. I have no doubt you will continue to impress your superiors wherever you land.” She’d squeezed his upper arm before wishing him well.

Poor Madras. It could just as easily have been Hadley out of a job. Thank Goddess, she had been selected to stay on as Bandar’s trusted aide and could provide some continuity. Still, the admiral had never acted so unsettled, even more so whenever around Captain Rorkken. Yes, he was Drakken, and who wasn’t unsettled to have so many of them in close quarters? Yet the admiral hadn’t uttered a single complaint over serving with their former enemies. Scrupulously fair, she’d been treating the Drakken crewmen the same as their own people, expecting the same amount of obedience and hard work. It had to be Rorkken himself. He unsettled her. Hadley determined to figure out why.

The admiral stripped out of her uniform and into a pair of workout pants. Hadley reached for it, heavy with a career’s worth of decorations. Acting as a valet wasn’t her job, but it was another small thing to do for her hero. Her hero with a suddenly mysterious past. Her gaze dropped to the admiral’s toned, flat stomach as she thought of the white box, with those two tiny shoes. She’d obsessed since the discovery and couldn’t help visualizing Bandar pregnant. If she narrowed her eyes and tried hard, she could definitely imagine a rounded belly—

“Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Hadley almost jumped out of her skin. “No. No, ma’am.” Guilt swamped her, and she prayed it didn’t show on her face.

Admiral Bandar merely shrugged and snapped the waistband of her athletic pants around her trim hips. “It’s been a busy week, Hadley. You ought to indulge in some of the recreational activities on board. Why not pay a visit to the all-ranks club? I hear it’s become a favored after-duty gathering spot for young officers like yourself.”

The admiral had caught Hadley off guard. She’d rarely gone to the bar on the Vengeance. It had bored her, and few had felt comfortable socializing due to her closeness to Bandar. “I need to catch up on paperwork.”

“Catch up tomorrow. Have a well-deserved drink—you never know who might join you. And give that to me.” Bandar lifted her uniform out of Hadley’s hands, slipping it over a hanger. Then she turned on her heel toward the lightball court.

“You never know who might join you . . .”

Hadley had walked past the bar once, on opening day, craning her neck to see inside. It had been crowded, the music booming. An acrid scent of alcohol and sweat had wafted out. Tango had been there, leaning against the bar and socializing with his Terran friends. One of the other pilots had tapped him on the shoulder, saying something, and Tango had turned, catching Hadley mid-stare. His grin had been knowing and smug, and she’d blushed to her toes.

He’d be on his mid-shift now, just off duty. She’d memorized his schedule in order to avoid him.

Or for the opposite reason?

Her legs seemed to have a mind of their own, pulling her out of the hatch and toward the bar.

At the end of his shifts, Finn walked the corridors of the huge ship, getting a feel for her—the sounds, the smells, the layout. All her nooks and crannies. Like getting to know a new lover.

He snorted. When did you last stay around long enough to learn a woman, Rorkken?

His nomadic life as a spacer had limited romantic entanglements to outposts, where there was no promise, or even hope, of a long-term commitment. With his shipmates, it could have been different. They saw you at your best and at your worst, became your closest friends. If you weren’t careful, you could get attached. Love during wartime came with high risks, and only rarely had he been tempted—when he’d sensed a connection that could weather the jump from friends to lovers. Yet he never had. Each time, his situation had simply been too dire for distractions. He knew in his gut that permanent relationships were in his blood—that choosing to be alone contradicted his nature—but the gods had chosen his path.

Voices and laughter grew louder as he rounded the corner to the recreational area of the ship. The casual eatery here dispensed to-go snacks, and a general store sold various supplies. A few Coalition officers and one Terran browsed inside but not a single Drakken.

It won’t be too hard to find them, though, he thought wryly, following the noise at the bar. Out of habit, he reached for his dozer—except, it wasn’t there. It had been replaced by a new Triad-issued XPF-222 sidearm, known as a triple. And they weren’t at a derelict saloon on some seedy outpost. The bar was the all-ranks club on the newest Triad ship. He kept his triple in its holster and walked inside.

As usual, the three components of the Triad sat separated, although he saw some Terrans and the Coalition mingling.

“Greetings, Captain.”

Finn tracked the voice to its source. “Greetings to you too, Bolivarr.” The Wraith sat with about a dozen other shipmates from the Pride, his hands curved around a glass of water. The rest of them fixated on Ekko, who scowled and twisted a small cube with multicolored squares. Their drinks had hardly been touched. Bolivarr was one thing but the rest of the crew not drinking?

“Is there something wrong with the liquor?” Finn borrowed a glass and brought it to his nose. “It smells good. A cut above our usual swill.” A few cuts.

Ekko slammed the colored cube down on the table. “It’s impossible.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a puzzle. The Terran gave them out. He called it a Roob . . . something.”

“A Rubik’s Cube.” The pilot, Tango, sauntered over and took the cube, giving it several methodical twists before holding it up for all to see. Each side was now a solid color. “That’s all there is to it.” He then twisted it back into multicolored sides, tossing it to Ekko. “Have fun.”

The man tried to revert the sides. Bolivarr observed the man’s struggles.

“Give me that,” another crewman, Markkar, demanded.

“Take the freepin’ thing.” Ekko hunched his broad shoulders and folded his arms over his muscled chest.

Tango grinned as he sucked down the contents of a bottle decorated with indecipherable runes. Finn detected a strange tangy scent. Hard to say if he liked or was repulsed by it, but he’d never smelled anything like it before.

“It’s Lone Star, sir,” Tango explained. “A brand of an alcoholic beverage known as beer. There are better brews, but this one owns a piece of my heart because it hails from the sweetest little place on Earth—Texas. My home. Have one on me.”

Finn shook his head. “Another time.”

“There’s more. Ninety-nine more cases chilling in the cargo hold, assorted brands, all handpicked by me. And other Earth specialties too—but that’s a surprise. It took some negotiating, the extra weight. I said it was to enhance cross-cultural awareness, and they approved it.” He beamed a smug smile. “I see it as my duty to show the rest of you that Earth is more than just a shrine world.” The pilot’s chatter trailed off as his attention shifted. “Speaking of cross-cultural awareness . . . ”

Bandar’s pretty executive officer had entered the club. Obviously shy, but pretending otherwise, Lieutenant Keyren held her head high and walked to the bar. She sat on a gently bobbing smart chair, unaware of—or ignoring—Tango, who had eyes only for her.

Hadley alone? Where’s Bandar?

Finn made his way over to her. “Finally off duty, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Admiral Bandar’s in the gym.”

“In the gym . . . ?” Hmm. “Well, I’ll leave you to your relaxation.” Finn started walking toward the exit.

“You sure you don’t want a beer for the road, sir?” Tango asked him.

He shook his head and patted the Terran on the back. “Buy one for the lady.”

Leaving the bar, he resumed his walk-about. Bandar was in the gym, eh? Curiosity overtook him. He flexed his arms, rubbing a bicep. He hadn’t done much exercise since he’d arrived, not yet settling into a routine, but he didn’t want to go soft. High time he checked out the equipment. With an almost feral grin, he turned in the direction of the gym.

Tango sauntered over to Hadley and leaned an elbow on the bar. She sat perfectly erect in front of her tall, thin glass, filled to the top with electric-blue liquid.

“What ‘cha got there?”

“Poru punch.”

“Is it alcoholic?” He lifted the glass and sniffed. “Barely. It’s a girlie drink.”

She grabbed the glass away from him. “I’m a girl.”

“You, darlin’, are a woman. A lovely, capable woman who looks like she needs an evening off.” He loved that he made her blush. How many women her age still did? “Give me another Lone Star,” he told the bartender. “Make that two of them.” Then he dug in his pocket for the trinket he’d been carrying around. “Your hand, please, Miss Hadley.”

“My hand?”

“Your hand, yes. The body part that’s connected to your wrist.” He pulled her right hand toward him. She resisted, pulling it back, and he found her huge sky-blue eyes.

“Trust me,” he said in his deepest, softest voice, the one that he knew worked every time. She relaxed a little. Ah, his sweet Hadley, his ripe little apple—fresh and juicy and just a little bit tart. She was going to taste so good. He’d invite her to his quarters, introduce her to some classic movies from Earth, and let nature take its course. “I have something to give you. A ring.”

“A ring?”

“There you go again. Do you always answer statements with questions?” He calculated the slender width of her hand and slid the ring up her index finger. “There.” He held up her hand so she could see. “It’s called a mood ring.” It was part of his trinkets-for-the-natives’ collection, like the Rubik’s Cubes. He envisioned himself as the self-proclaimed Johnny Appleseed of Earth, planting their culture across the galaxy to grow and flourish. So what if the mission was unsanctioned? Johnny hadn’t had official backing either, when he’d gone west and started planting apple trees in the Ohio Valley.

Hadley turned her hand from side to side. “Thank you. The color is so pretty. As gray as a winter sky on Talo, my homeworld.”

“Gray? Let me see that.” He’d been banking on deep purple—purple for passion. Yep, gray. It didn’t bode well for his hoped-for effect on her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“The colors reveal your mood.” He handed her a tiny instruction guide, translated to QT.

“Gray,” she read, scanning the page. “Anxious, very nervous, strained—”

“Beer.” The bartender slid two longnecks toward him. He popped the top with a louder-than-usual fizz. The pressure was slightly lower here than at home.

“For you, Hadley.” He offered her the bottle.

She sniffed, took a sip, and grimaced. “It’s bitter. And bubbly.” She handed the bottle back. “I don’t really care for it.”

“It’s an acquired taste. We’ll keep working on it. Together.” He took a long, deep swig. “Ah. Ice-cold heaven.”

“You might find that you enjoy sweef more,” a deep voice said.

Bolivarr, the former assassin, had quickly become the ship’s enigma. True to form, he’d popped up out of nowhere, assuming a protective position next to Hadley’s stool. She twisted around, eyeballed the man, and then spun back around, staring at her drink. Everyone knew who Bolivarr was—and what he’d done—yet he hardly spoke. Rumors flew though—if believed, Bolivarr had done everything from eat small children to serve as a martial arts trainer to the dead warlord.

By now, Hadley was sandwiched between the men.

“Sweef,” Tango drawled. “You mean that hydraulic fluid rot-gut that passes for alcohol?”

“Too strong for you, Terran?”

“I don’t see you drinking none, dude.”

“Come.” Bolivarr beckoned and disappeared into the shadows. Tango started to follow, but Hadley grabbed his arm.

“Tango, don’t. Sweef is really strong.”

Maybe she didn’t think he could keep up with the Drakken. All the more reason to take Bolivarr’s challenge. So far, Tango had done nothing but un-impress Hadley, and it was time to reverse the trend. He’d just gotten off duty and wouldn’t go on for another sixteen ship hours. He calculated. Plenty of time for a shot of sweef to metabolize through his body. By the time he would report back on duty, he’d be one-hundred-percent sober.

“This is a perfect opportunity for cultural bonding,” he explained. “We’re on the Unity. It’s time we started acting unified—from the bottom up. Or”—he tipped his hand as if holding a drink—“is that bottoms up?”

Hadley didn’t smile at his joke. “I do agree that we need to forge common interests between the groups. But sweef? Bad idea.”

“It’s like having a shot of moonshine on Earth. Nothing I haven’t tasted before. ‘Sides, it’s more symbolic than anything else, a little cross-cultural appropriation. Keep me company. I could use a wingmate.” When she hesitated, he coaxed, “It’d mean a lot.”

She groaned, rolling her eyes. “All right. For the sake of unity.” He clasped her warm, soft fingers and helped her off the floating barstool.

Resting his hand on her back, Tango steered her to the Drakken table, where the men hunched over some kind of dice game. The Rubik’s Cube was in pieces. “Someone got a little frustrated, huh?”

They looked up at him in unison, their expressions hard and suspicious—a scene out of an old Western, the city-bred sheriff meeting the local gunslingers for the first time.

Tango had flown fighters for his entire career. Before he’d joined the Thunderbirds, he’d logged some combat hours, but looking at the hard faces of these Drakken, he knew he hadn’t seen the same kind of war. The same bloodshed. The same despair. They were too young to look this way.

“That’s all right.” He collected pieces of the broken cube. “I have a spare.” He dug through his flight suit’s roomy calf pocket and tossed another Rubik’s Cube onto the table. It skittered across the surface before stopping. “Keep it. Payment for my drink.”

They frowned at the cube then him. “What the freep is this?” one of the newcomers asked.

“It’s a puzzle. The goal is to make each side a solid color.”

“Children play with toys,” another Drakken muttered.

Tango leaned toward Hadley and whispered, “The boys will have to warm up to me.”

Bolivarr spoke up. “The Terran says he’s never tried sweef.”

One of the men pulled the stopper off a black bottle.

“Tango.” Hadley touched his arm. “Let’s go.”

“Wait a second, darlin’. I gotta sample some of this sweet Drakken moonshine.” A Drakken poured him a shot glass. Mostly clear with a hint of amber, sweef did look disturbingly like hydraulic fluid. Tango lifted the glass, aimed it around the somber group, and tossed back its contents.

Someone had aimed a blowtorch to the back of his throat, flames shooting up his nose into his deepest sinus cavities and eyeballs. Into his brain. He sputtered, almost gagging. Eyes tearing, he managed to choke it down. Vertigo unsteadied him. He stared at a fixed spot on the table until it passed.

The Drakken watched him, their tattoos visible, their earrings glinting. Wuss. Weakling. It didn’t matter in what language or slang they were thinking—he’d just failed their test.

Tango pounded his fist against the center of his chest. “Ah, man. That hit the spot.” Like napalm. “But it barely lit my afterburners. Another? Come on. Who’ll join me?”