Morgan

  Her eyes open.

  The ceiling is there to greet her.

  Ceiling, she beseeches, silently, why does my head hurt?

  She already knows the answer; she's just being needlessly coy in this one-sided conversation with an inanimate object. Morgan's head hurts because she was out late last night drinking with Drobyek and Vasck, which was in hindsight an obviously stupid decision. Because Morgan has no ability whatsoever to hold her liquor. And because now her head is pounding, and the room is spinning, and she's drenched in sweat, and because she doesn't even like Drobyek and Vasck, the pair of damn hyenas, and thus it stands to reason that she only spent time with them out of some pathetic, misguided urge to rebel against her-

  Slow down, Morgan. You've been awake all of thirty seconds, and already you're working yourself up.

  So Morgan stands up, or rather sort of slumps out of bed and then claws, with one hand on her dresser, to a half-standing/half-crouching position. She yanks open the top drawer and fumbles around for pills that will fix or at least postpone the side effects of last night's little rebellion — but her body has other plans, and the muscles in her throat quite violently contract, and so she has no choice but to lurch over to the toilet and commence vomiting.

  A few minutes later, that's all said and done, and so she wipes her mouth on her sleeve and staggers back to the dresser and hungrily ingests the aforementioned pair of small yellow pills. Then she leans back against her bed, eyes closed, and waits for the spinning to stop.

  Ten minutes later, the spinning does indeed stop. Her mind clears. The fatigue is lifted from her shoulders. She opens her eyes, stands straight up. Thanks for that one, Doc Meriya. Much appreciated. Feeling a bit more like a human being now — although the fatigue and the hangover are definitely still there, just muted in a corner at the very back of her mind — Morgan decides to look in the mirror and take stock.

  Take stock of what, exactly? Well, herself. Morgan Kal, Chief Representative and Negotiator for the cargo vessel Dagger Dancer. Which is not a cargo vessel at all, actually, and is in fact a smuggling ship. Which makes Morgal Kal a criminal, in addition to being a fugitive. And arguably a sort of pirate? Nevertheless, the individual described here is one that has come into being only a few months ago, and thus Morgan believes it wise to try and get to know this strange woman who bears her name and face as best she can. They're in this together, after all.

  The aforementioned strange woman is currently watching her from the mirror. Pale-skinned and twenty-four years of age, with shoulder-length hair genetically altered to a dark-blue hue (it had been the latest fashion, at the time. Now it is distinctly outdated). Vivid, piercing azure eyes; eyes that pin you to a spot, that seem at times to practically glow in the dark. Those blue eyes are the hallmark of her wretched family. And she is beautiful, of course, her disheveled state notwithstanding, because...well, of course she is. Morgan is the daughter of one of the most powerful dynasties in all the Shattered Domain. Cutting-edge geneticists and artisans had sculpted her features whilst she was still in the womb; her appearance was never going to be left to chance.

  Morgan, if you haven't gathered this already, is a woman on the run - from responsibility, mainly, and from quite a few other things as well. She is by no means supposed to be here, on this rickety old ship with this bizarre little gathering of thieves and smugglers and, yes, even killers. Her escape was a matter of enormous difficulty; for the time being, her father has not pursued her, though she can easily imagine the depths of his outrage and fury.

  But enough about her father! Enough about that whole miserable, wretched, high-society, aristocratic facsimile of a life. Morgan has worked diligently and deliberately to leave those things in the past. On to the future, then: today is The Big Day. And so Morgan makes haste to get dressed.

  Dark slacks, affixed in place with a silver-buckled belt. A starch-white shirt, with which she considers a tie. She makes a decision; the tie is discarded, the top button is left undone in hopes of appearing a bit more casual and a bit less princess-y. One step above smuggler, two or three steps below highborn. She throws on a black suit-jacket over all that, adjusting her cuffs and straightening herself out and what-have-you. Runs a quick brush through her hair, but doesn't get too into it — again, we are not trying to look like a princess here. Not too formal, just a little classy, because that's what the Dagger Dancer could use right now.

  Some class.

  Morgan's role, on a ship like this, is traditionally referred to as The Face.

  She gives herself one last look in the mirror. Clicks her tongue, winks. The other woman performs the gesture right back. Okay, then. Morgana (the princess) and Morgan (the smuggler) are in good accord, and high spirits, and so Morgan departs, whistling cheerfully, for breakfast.

  Today may yet be a good day.

  Breakfast, as usual, is a pretty chaotic scene.

  The entirety of the crew are seated at a table in the center of the Dagger Dancer's sardonically-named 'dining room', chowing down together on a cheaply-replicated spread of all the usual breakfast items. It is a poor man's feast indeed, one attended even by Doc Meriya, who does not eat — because Captain Kaela insists on it, and the captain's word is law. Kaela likes to see everyone's faces, you see, likes for everyone to see each other's faces. The captain has declared on multiple occasions that the quickest way to bring people together is for them to eat alongside one another; she believes it is a holdover from ancient times, when human beings were just animals jockeying for survival alongside everything else. Gotta watch each other's backs, right? I'll eat, while you watch for panthers or whatever, and then we'll switch. Thus does mere consumption become the oldest of social contracts, or something like that.

  Morgan doesn't know about all that — has never heard of a panther at all — but she does enjoy these gatherings a great deal, because her upbringing has her naturally inclined towards vibrant social situations such as these. She loves big groups, loves chaotic and conflicting personalities. She loves noise and drama and good conversation and small talk, big talk, whichever. She likes being witty, and funny, and getting a laugh out of the whole damn table whenever she likes. And she really likes that she's the underdog, the one nobody is yet taking seriously, because Morgan is a voraciously intelligent young woman who has not been challenged once in her entire life. That's the thing with being a princess, you see: the respect comes built-in, from day one. You don't earn it, and you couldn't lose it even if you tried. The only respect she has to earn is that of her father, and that...well, suffice to say that game was rigged from the start. No chance of victory anytime soon.

  Let's go around and introduce some faces, then, shall we?

  To Morgan's immediate left sits Nelenn Drobyek — a burly, tan-skinned young man with scraggly beard and messy hair. This is the man who was snoring loudly on the couch last night; he, like his buddy Vasck, sports a barcode on his cheek that marks him as a veteran Excoriator. Though he's a fair bit more easygoing than Vasck, and rarely means any real harm, he's also dumb as rocks — and currently cackling like a hyena with the aforementioned Nero Vasck, who needs no introduction.

  Next to Drobyek and Vasck, we have doc Kayi Meriya, who has no head and thus does not eat. Or—well, Meriya has a head, it's just that her 'head' is an angular metal faceplate with orange-glowing eyes that has been grafted to the neck of a decapitated corpse. A forest of thick wiring trails from behind her head and disappears beneath her collar, and they kind of resemble a ponytail if you really squint. Kayi Meriya, in addition to being the ship's unlicensed doctor and resident distributor of magical hangover-relieving pills, is also what's known colloquially as a Golem — a sapient AI puppeteering a dead woman's body. Golems are illegal as all hell, and also decidedly unethical, and if nothing else strictly taboo. That being said, Meriya is a warm and pleasant sort, and Morgan can't help but quite like her. Everyone likes her Doc Meriya.

  Beside the golem, we've got Rohn Veis and Captain Medo Kaela. Stark opposites, the both of them, he a mousy little spectacle-wearing fellow with nice clothes and jittery fingers and a fast-moving mouth. She, by contrast, a stern and stark and thoroughly intense woman with short-cut grey hair and a vivid scar stretching horizontal across her throat. They're married, believe it or not, and they've been running the Dagger Dancer for thirty years straight. Veis is the money-man, as well as an on-and-off technician — but Kaela, on the other hand, has worn just about every hat imaginable. Pilot, navigator, Face, mechanic, and even muscle. And all while being the undisputed boss of the whole damn operation, of course. Morgan likes them both a great deal; Veis is whip-smart and eminently good-natured, while Kaela is the single toughest woman she has ever met and the kind of captain one could be genuinely proud to serve under.

  Shooting the shit with Veis — and currently letting rip a booming, boisterous laugh — is Father Mackran Belos, who is not a priest (though 'Father' is what everyone calls him anyway). He's a sheer massive slab of a man, somewhere late fifties or early sixties with a bald head and a bushy brown beard and outfitted, currently, in a ceremonial robe replete with bandolier and belt — both stocked to the brim with all manner of tools and equipment. His arms, currently bare, are both littered with tattoos and black with grease, and around his neck he wears at all times a humble wooden pendant. It is the symbol of his church, The Penitent Order of the Sorrowed and Shrouded, from whom he is currently on year four of a ten-year sabbatical pilgrimage. Father Belos is the heart of the Dagger Dancer in the most literal sense possible, for he is the 'boiler-man' who works the sweltering engine room and generally keeps the old girl from falling to pieces. He is also, Morgan believes, not in any way religious.

  Then, lastly — and last to arrive — we have perhaps the most interesting one of them all, who sits beside Morgan now with a sheepish little incline of his head. That would be Seven-Two; the former Mondatti, the assassin and killer and habitual liar who is even now putting on false affectations for everyone else's benefit. He is cold and bizarre and meticulous and obsessive and so much of his outer demeanor is entirely fake; Morgan finds him a fascinating puzzle. She's been trained from when she was just a little girl to read faces, you see, and so she alone can spot all the little fractures and flaws in his facade.

  Out of politeness, she keeps this knowledge to herself — that fact that she can always tell when he's bullshitting. Instead she gives him a chipper (that is, intentionally overbearing) smile, and nudges him with her elbow, and says with more energy than strictly necessary: "Good morning, Sevvie!"

  His irritation is immediate, and visible only by the subtle crinkling in the corners of his eyes. And that's fair enough; Morgan knows that he vastly prefers the moniker of Seven-Two, which is why he's refused to take a normal human name and why he internally scowls at any such flippant nickname as Sevvie. He's been pretty direct about the reason why, too — because he's worn so many false faces and made-up names that he places immense value on the only name he was actually given, at birth, even if that name is nothing more than a serial number.

  But Morgan finds the name Seven-Two to be cold, and soulless, and depressing. And so she continues to call him Sevvie, even though he hates it, because she is a princess and very much accustomed to imprinting her will upon the world.

  Anyway, the crew has now made Sevvie the center of their attention.

  "There he is," Vasck sneers, pausing to take a sip of something dark and viscous. He resumes: "Still with us, Skinwalker? Thought you'd run off last night."

  "Hey, come on-" Veis frowns. Meriya blows out steam from the vents on her metal face, signaling disapproval, and Father Belos opens his mouth to object—but Seven-Two forestalls their protests with an easygoing smile and a wave of his hand.

  "Nah, nah," he chuckles back, the picture of casual nonchalance. Morgan spots the flaws at once — chief among them the fact that his eyes are absolutely locked onto Vasck, and haven't moved one iota since the other man first spoke. "Just went out for a little midnight stroll, that's all."

  "Yeah? You hit the town?" Drobyek laughs. "Mondatti man at the club...?"

  "That'd be one hell of a sight," Belos agrees.

  "Oh, please." Seven-Two chuckles again, waving them off. "No, nothing like that - just wanted to get some fresh air, that's all." He pauses, for a moment, clearly considering something.

  Then, Seven-Two makes a decision. "Okay," the assassin says, apropos of nothing. "Let me be honest. I went out to buy a gun."

  The table erupts, then, because the ship already has plenty of guns, and those guns were being very deliberately being kept out of the ex-Mondatti's hands. And now, naturally, even those who were warming up to Seven-Two are in a state of panic, because their trust in him has been immediately tested and failed. A Mondatti among their ranks is one thing. But an armed Mondatti, who probably has a gun on him right now? That's a different matter entirely.

  There are only two people at the table, aside from Seven-Two, who aren't currently clamoring over one another to be heard. They are Captain Kaela, because that woman is totally unflappable, and Morgan, who is unafraid because she can see quite clearly that Seven-Two is genuinely embarrassed right now.

  And then, from above, there comes a new voice: "Oh you bought it, did you?" And without further ado, there appears at the center of the table the final member of the Dagger Dancer's crew. There, amidst plates and bowls and glasses, does a jovial man in floral pink shirt and tan shorts lounge upon a beach chair, drink in hand, shirt open and eyes obscured by a pair of yellow-orange sunglasses.

  This man, who is clearly on vacation, is Patrick. And Patrick is also merely the holographic presentation chosen by the Dagger Dancer's shipboard artificial intelligence, P-826492TC — but he still prefers to be called Patrick, at any rate. And right now he is sitting straight up, setting aside his drink, and fixing Seven-Two with an accusing stare.

  "What's he talking about?" Vasck demands, eyes narrowed. Hand, no doubt, on his own gun, with Drobyek doing the same beside him. Everyone is very tense and very still and this is all sort of spiraling into chaos and so Veis, who has known Patrick the longest, tells him quite pointedly to cut the theatrics and explain himself.

  "So this bozo wanders the port for hours on end, right?" Patrick tells them, standing upright now. As long as anyone has known him, he's always spoken with that bizarre affectation — supposedly the vernacular of some ancient-humanity subculture. "I'm like what the hell is this guy up to? And I'm patched into city security, of course-" Veis shoots the hologram a disapproving scowl, "-so I decide to just keep an eye on him for a while. And it's only three hours in that I finally understand what's going on, because it's only three hours in that this shit goes down."

  Seven-Two doesn't say a word as Patrick leans back and, with dramatic hand gesture, casts a much larger holographic projection onto the far wall (which is bare and flat for just such a purpose). Everyone watches with bated breath as the image resolves to grainy security-cam footage, a bird's-eye-view observing dispassionately as a disheveled man holds Seven-Two at gunpoint. The stranger is saying something and gesturing aggressively; though there is no sound, it doesn't exactly take a genius to infer that the Mondatti is being robbed.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  And it doesn't take a genius to see that Seven-Two is inching closer, either, slow and surreptitious and feigning a trembling sort of terror all the while. His mouth is moving constantly, no doubt a stream of pleas and apologies and other clear signifiers of panic. Seven-Two is sending all the signals that the other man expects — no, wants — to see.

  There's a pit in Morgan's stomach, right as she puts together that this is all just bait.

  And when it does happen, finally, it's disturbingly quick. Seven-Two moves in the blink of an eye, slapping the barrel of the gun to one side and slinking like a shadow 'round the man's back — and then, without further ado, Seven-Two snaps his neck.

  The really eerie part is that Seven-Two's expression is totally blank. Not even cold, or stoic, or intense. Just empty, like there's literally nothing there. Like he's thinking about nothing at all, in the moment when he snuffs out this stranger's life.

  He picks up the gun, tucks it into his pocket, and steps away with not so much as a parting glance. And that's where the video ends, and so every member of the Dagger Dancer is turning their heads to the Mondatti-man in slow, unsettled unison.

  Any trace of congeniality or warmth has vanished from Seven-Two's face. His expression is entirely blank, just it was in the video. His body is perfectly still. And amidst all of this dire attention, all this tension in the air, the only thing Seven-Two has to say — in an eerily calm voice — is this:

  "I told you not to watch me, Patrick."

  "And I said that you can't tell me what to do, man!" Patrick shouts, jabbing a finger. "I'm a free spirit! I am an unshackled AI, and you can bet your ass I'll be keeping a close eye on some void-damn fuckin' Mondatti assassin on our fuckin' ship! Especially when that motherfucker is sneaking out at night, and especially when he's going out to fucking kill people!"

  That's it.

  The tension explodes.

  "We shoulda spaced him on the way here!" Vasck snaps, rising sharply to his feet. Hand visibly on the handle of his gun. "What the fuck did I tell you people?!"

  "You lured that man in, didn't you? You wanted that," Father Belos accuses, folding burly arms — seeming more disappointed than anything else. "Did you really have to kill him?"

  "For the thousandth time, Patrick, you cannot just go infiltrating whatever systems you please!" Veis sighs, exasperated, to which the AI throws up his hands in complaint. He is the only one looking anywhere other than Seven-Two. "No—Patrick, don't you even start! If city security found out we had an unshackled AI on board-"

  "I don't like him having a gun," Meriya says, blowing out a great deal more steam. "Look, no matter what, I really don't like that he has a gun-

  "I'm with Meriya!" Drobyek nods vigorously, patting the Golem on the shoulder. "Captain, surely this is-"

  "Guys, come on, he's fucking Mondat," Morgan struggles to be heard, over the din and chaos. "I really doubt that a gun makes that much of a difference—he could kill us all with a toothpick, if he really wanted to!"

  "First of all, it was self-defence," Seven-Two starts. "And Morgan, you are severely over-estimating my-"

  "Quiet!" Kaela snaps.

  Boom. Like a spell's been cast, the common room goes from deafening noise to total silence. Everyone sits down and shuts the fuck up, in the blink of an eye, because Captain Medo Kaela is unmistakably, indisputably, and utterly without question The Boss. This is her ship, her domain, her kingdom. They are all living in Kaela-world, and they are all here by choice, and so when Captain Kaela says quiet everyone scrambles to make it so.

  Morgan, like everybody else, bites her tongue and waits, with bated breath, for the captain's verdict.

  "What was our agreement?" Kaela asks Seven-Two, after a few seconds have passed. Simple and cold. "Recite it for me." Nobody moves a muscle, nobody breathes a word.

  "The whole thing?" Seven-Two asks, genuinely.

  "Don't be a smartass. The relevant part."

  "No secrets," the Mondatti answers, flat-voiced and stone-faced. "No lies. Whatever 'shady shit' I'm up to, I keep you in the loop."

  "Sounds about right to me," Kaela agrees. "Alright then. Tell me, Seven, do you want to be here?"

  "Yes, ma'am." A pause. "Very badly, ma'am."

  "Then why did you think it wise to betray my trust?"

  A much longer pause. "I want to be useful, ma'am. And I'd be more useful to you all if I had proper equipment. A gun seemed like a good place to start."

  "You took issue with my order to remain unarmed, then?" Kaela arched an eyebrow. "You wanted a gun that badly, all along, even when you and me were agreeing to those exact terms?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Then why didn't you tell me?" Kaela demands. "I'm going out on quite the limb here, Seven-Two, by trusting you aboard my ship — so why wouldn't you trust me, in return?"

  A very long silence. And then, finally, he answers: "Force of habit, ma'am."

  Morgan suddenly feels quite bad for him.

  More silence abounds. Everyone is looking around, confused and wary, as Kaela deliberates in silence.

  Finally, though, the captain she raises a hand. She declares: "Very well. You can keep the gun," and then the room erupts into shouting and protests and confusion and outrage until, at the height of it all, the Captain barks out "That's enough!"

  Once again, everyone shuts the fuck up.

  "Seven and I have spoken together, in private," Kaela tells them, rising now to her feet and casting a stern gaze over her crew. "I am privy to certain information that the rest of you are not. Believe me, now, when I say that we can trust this man."

  "How can we possibly trust a fucking Skinwalker-" Vasck begins to protest.

  "It's my decision," Kaela growls, and the vehemence in her voice shuts Vasck down for good. "My ship. My call, and right now my call is that Seven-Two will be an invaluable member of our crew. He's a specialist the likes of which most people have to pay a fortune, and he's here offering to work for half-pay. I choose to take a chance on this man. If the rest of you choose otherwise-" she hikes a thumb over her shoulder, "I'll send you off with full severance and warm regards. I won't be happy to see any of you go; you're good, reliable people, and you know I'm quite fond of you all. But if you wanna walk, walk. I won't stop you." She paused for a moment, arched an eyebrow. "Anybody?"

  Naturally, it's Veis who speaks up first. "I've been running the numbers," he tells them, which is obvious because Veis is always running the numbers. "Folks, the money is dire. Even worse than usual. We're neck-deep in the black. While I understand that the nature of his presence is...objectionable, to some degree, I also think we should be considering the fact that Seven-Two opens up some pretty high-level jobs — the sorts of jobs that could actually get us out of this hole, if we're lucky. And, financially-" he pushes the spectacles up his face, "-I mean, come on. He's working for half-pay. It's literally a drop in the bucket." He turns back, squeezes Kaela's hand, gets a rare smile in return. "Of course I'm with you, darling," he tells her, for all the rest to see.

  Belos chimes in next. "If you say he's alright, cap, then he's alright," the big man rumbles, and that is simply that.

  "There are very few other captains who'd let a Golem serve on their ship." Meriya shrugs her shoulders. "Where else could I even go? Besides-" she turns her head to Seven-Two, "-I mean, I can honestly kind of relate."

  "Alright, alright, Cap, fuck off with all that walking-away talk," Drobyek drawls, waving Kaela's offer away. His other hand, beneath the table, is still on his gun. "I love all you morons, you know that. Like hell I'd ever walk away from this." He narrows his eyes, then, at Seven-Two. "I ain't gonna piss my pants at some fucking Mondatti spook 'neither. I'm solid, Cap."

  Vasck, after a moment's hesitation — and clear prompting from his war-buddy — clears his throat and mutters, "Fine, whatever," without looking up. His lip curls. "Just don't ever point that gun at me, Skinwalker, or I swear to the void you'll regret it."

  Patrick, alas, is physically incapable of running away. He does not get a vote. And so, finally, all heads turn now to Morgan. The runaway princess. The other newcomer. The one by far least-acquainted with violence, and the one who should probably be most afraid of the lethal assassin sitting eerily-calm beside her.

  Morgan just shrugs her shoulders and shoots them all a cocky, effortlessly-charming grin. "What're you looking at me for?" she scoffs. She reaches over, jostles a statuesque Seven-Two on the shoulder. "Me and Sevvie are buddies, you guys know that! I mean, that's literally my mentor right there. I don't think he'd shoot me." She frowns, for effect, and right now she is laying it all on pretty damn thick. "Are you gonna be an asshole and shoot me, Sevvie?"

  "No, Morgan," the assassin answers flatly. "I am not."

  There is one more long, uncertain silence — and then Kaela clears her throat.

  "Alright, enough gawking," she declares. "Everyone get up, get ready, and get the fuck to work. We got a job to do."

  She finds him in his room, after they've all scattered to prepare, and she takes the opportunity to soak in every new and interesting detail of the peculiar man's peculiar quarters. Except—well, there are no new or interesting details, because everything is exactly the same as when she last saw it. That is to say: utterly sparse, spartan, barren, bleak, devoid of any decoration or personality whatsoever and containing only the barest minimum of necessary furniture.

  This place depresses Morgan to no end. It is anathema to all her sensibilities; she is a princess, after all, and she likes having things.

  Sevvie, she is beginning to suspect, does not like anything at all.

  The ex-Mondatti is currently sitting cross-legged on the floor, with two-dozen pieces of metal arranged in front of him. He's meticulously wiping down a slender steel barrel; Morgan can only assume that this is the stolen—looted?—gun, rendered now to only its most base constituent parts.

  "I know," Seven-Two tells her, without looking, as she hovers in the doorway to observe. "I'll be ready in just a moment. This weapon was in rough shape when I found it — I don't want it jamming on me, the next time you or I need someone dead."

  It was a markedly more verbose greeting than he might have given to any other member of the Dagger Dancer, as befit the nature of their relationship — because just as Morgan had said, Sevvie was ostensibly her new mentor. He, the so-called professional liar, had been assigned by Captain Kaela to help Morgan grow into the best Face/negotiator/con-woman/bullshit artist she could be, as naturally befit her skills as a former Lady Of High Society.

  That was a bit galling, given that Morgan had been on the Dancer for nearly three months now, and that Seven-Two had come aboard just six days prior. She was to be the one moving up a notch on the totem pole — but then again, three months wasn't much of a leg to stand on. And besides, the logic was sound: how many people, in all the Shattered Domain, would ever have the opportunity to learn from a member of the fucking Mondat?

  "So," she says, apropos of nothing, as he sets the barrel aside. "Got any advice for me?" The rag, too, goes down, and then his hands are moving fast, and a few seconds later the weapon has been entirely reassembled. Morgan is now looking at a compact, boxy, unassuming little pistol — some sort of slug or flechette launcher, she guesses, given the lack of any visible power source. He slides a magazine into place, which further confirms her suspicions; with a satisfying little click, the slide shifts forth and the magazine locks into place. Without further ado he rises to his feet, then gives her the classic Seven-Two blank stare. The same stare he wore when killing that man, of course.

  "About what?" he asks, partly-unzipping his fleece jacket and tucking the weapon inside. He zips back up, and there is not a trace of the weapon's presence in there. No bulge, no distortion, nothing. Like it doesn't even exist.

  Dude. Come on. "The job?" Morgan says, maybe a bit too forcefully. "The upcoming negotiation with a crime lord that I'm supposed to be in charge of? The thing you're supposed to be mentoring me on...?"

  "Oh, right," Seven-Two says. "That." Void, he is woefully laconic for a so-called mentor. "Uh..." He trails off. "Be confident."

  "Just be confident?" Morgan repeats, incredulous.

  "Yeah." He shrugs. "Act like you know what you're doing. That's at least half as good as actually knowing what you're doing, right?"

  "...no, Seven, I don't think it is."

  "Oh. Well." He shrugs again. "I think you'll be fine."

  "Thanks, man."

  "You're welcome." Said completely without irony, of course. He sits down now and begins to lace up his boots; left one first. Morgan's annoyance is growing by the minute. "I'll be right there for you to bounce off of, if you need. And we'll have Vasck and Drobyek watching our backs the whole time."

  "Oh boy," Morgan rolls her eyes. "Vasck and Drobyek. I feel safer already."

  "Hey," Seven-Two says sharply. His eyes are locked onto her now, although his hands have switched unconsciously to begin working on Right Boot. "Nero Vasck and Nelenn Drobyek are very good at what they do. Those men were Excoriators."

  This is just about the harshest she's ever heard him speak; for a moment, Morgan feels thoroughly rebuked. Then comes a surge of indignation, mired at once by the reminder that she's supposed to be getting on his good side right now. "Yeah?" she scoffs, anyway. "They're also deserters."

  At that, Seven-Two gives her even more of a pointed look, and Morgan realizes too late her obvious mistake. "Don't think either of us have any room to talk," the former Mondat says to the former princess.

  Ouch. Fair enough. "Sorry," Morgan sighs, finally, because she's smart enough to concede when she's lost. And then, because she still wants to position herself firmly on his side: "Nero really is an asshole, though."

  "He can be as much of an asshole as he likes," Seven shrugs, rising to his feet. Brushing past her, grabbing something from a drawer and bending down to tuck it into his sock. "So long as he does good work."

  "You think he'd show you that same respect?"

  "Who cares?" he replies, stepping the other way and rummaging around through another cabinet. He finds something, tucks it into his ear. "I don't need Nero Vasck's approval to do good work." He turns, finally, and looks her head-on. "And if my work is good, then it'll speak for itself."

  For fuck's sake. This was supposed to be her comforting him, showing support to the man who was just nearly kicked off this ship. Making quite clear that she, unlike the rest, is not afraid of him. Instead she's getting boxed into a corner by the man who must be the biggest, boring-est contrarian on the entire planet. Or moon, whatever. The frustration of repeatedly bashing her head against a brick wall eclipses her good social graces, then, and so Morgan says with intentionally-rankling vehemence: "My bad, Sevvie."

  She sees it at once; the little crinkling in the corner of his eyes. "Ha!" she blurts out. "You really do hate that nickname, don't you?"

  "I don't mind it."

  "Bullshit," Morgan scoffs. And then, for absolutely no good reason, she decides to keep pushing him. "I can tell when you're mad, you know."

  "I'm perfectly calm."

  "No, you're not. I'm getting on your nerves."

  "You are mistaken." This time, with the barest hint of tension in his voice.

  "Do you find me annoying?" Morgan presses.

  "Only when you're trying to be."

  "And the rest of the time?"

  "You..." he trails off. Morgan arches an eyebrow. "I don't mind you."

  "Oh, so you'll endure my presence, I get you." She rolls her eyes. "How magnanimous of you, Sevvie."

  "How in the void do you get enduring from I don't mind!?" he snaps at her, finally, but Morgan does not savor this victory because now this is a real argument and she is thoroughly wrapped up in this and she really does not even remember why. It's not her fault, really; she was practically born and bred to seek out these little verbal spats, and she's actually been growing increasingly anxious about the upcoming meeting as well — that is, the upcoming meeting with Boss Sekto Raa, bonafide flesh-trader and gun-runner. A cancerous root running so deep that even the Planetary Governor doesn't dare try and rip him out. This man is very much the real deal, and Morgan by contrast sees herself as little more than a spoiled little rich girl who has never worked a day in her life. Now, is this a rather uncharitable self-evaluation? Certainly. But that's how she feels, and how she's been feeling, subconsciously, for a hot minute now, and it's at this exact moment that all these dark thoughts are finally throwing back the curtain and making their presence known.

  But ah, forget about all that — let's just keep fighting! And that's exactly what Morgan opens her mouth to do, just as the ceiling-mounted projector flickers on and an uncharacteristically serious-looking Patrick appears, sans lawn chair, with drink in hand and a frown on his face. The reflection in his sunglasses is that of a stormy, turgid sea — a beach day that has been thoroughly rained out.

  "Yo," Patrick says, giving them both a little wave. "Bad news, guys."

  "Oh, good," Morgan quips.

  "Fantastic," Seven-Two agrees.

  "There's a, uh...well..." Patrick trails off, hesitating. Uncertain. Searching for the right words. Morgan knows that there's no need for any of this consternation; Patrick is an artificial intelligence who can process a thousand different thoughts in a tenth of a second. He's already worked out exactly what he's going to say — but like most unshackled AIs, he also very much enjoys the theater of it all. Or clings to it, at any rate. "Apparently there's a delegation of Yellowjackets docked here. Nearby. Since, uh, last night."

  Morgan's heart stops; her pale skin goes even paler, until she's all but bleach-white. Seven-Two, beside her, reacts with only the mildest confusion. "We're nowhere near their territory," he says, stating the obvious. "They're way outside their jurisdiction."

  "Well, somebody let 'em in," Patrick shrugs. "They've got a lot of guns, a lot of armor, and — from what I'm hearing — a member of the family with them as well. Fellas, this is some pretty serious business." And that last part is said specifically to Morgan, with blatant sympathy writ large across the AI's face.

  Oh, hell. Oh fucking hell. Morgan is uncharacteristically silent; her heart is pounding like a jackhammer in her chest, threatening to burst free and flop down and thrash around for a while, on the floor, like a dying fish. It's right then that the good doctor's magical hangover pills abruptly rescind their blessing, as well, and so that damned headache comes roaring back. It is a perfect confluence of biochemical misery.

  Seven-Two's eyes are flicking rapidly between Morgan and Patrick; even if he wasn't a trained spy for the Mondat, he'd still be able to see her distress plain as day. He understands, if nothing else, that right now something is very wrong. "Okay," he says, giving Morgan a long look before turning his attention to Patrick alone. "What am I missing here? Why is this bad news? Out-of-jurisdiction Yellowjackets shouldn't have anything to do with us." He glances back again at Morgan, then asks them both the obvious question: "...should it?"

  What is Seven-Two missing here? Well. For all his constant attentiveness to everything and everyone around him, and despite an obsessive-compulsive brain that refuses to ever take a break, he still hasn't figured out who she is yet. Hasn't recognized her from photos that he's surely seen, at some point or another.

  Seven-Two is missing the fact that Morgan Kal, Chief Negotiator and Representative for the smuggler-ship Dagger Dancer, is actually Lady Morgana Ten Kal Vell, heir to the mighty Vell Dynasty — and, more importantly, the firstborn daughter of Duke Jaheed Vell.

  That is to say, the most dangerous man in all the Shattered Domain.

  after chapter thirty-eight. I literally cannot wait.

  https://youtu.be/zVqdrb9_mMA?si=rHFEnsIonVV401Ba