“No, we’re too short-handed. We need him.” I let my shoulders slump. The sound I made came somewhere between an exhalation of tension and a sigh of regret. “Just keep an eye on him for me and make sure he doesn’t get up to mischief.”

“And if he does?”

“Keep a combat drone close to him. Don’t let him see it, but have it there just in case. If he does anything to imperil you or any member of the crew, you can do what you like.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“How are things going with your siblings?”

“Badly. I’m afraid we’re going to have to fight them.”

“Can we wait for reinforcements?”

“They’re killing the survivors of the liner crash. If we wait, there won’t be anyone left to rescue.”

* * *

I found Alva in the armoury. She was in the middle of stripping down an antique Managlese plasma rifle, and the various parts of the weapon were arrayed before her on the tool bench. The room smelled of gun oil and metal. When the Trouble Dog had been on active service, it would have held enough weaponry for the ship’s complement of 150 marines. Now, most of the wall-mounted racks were empty, and all the guns here belonged to Clay. I had a couple of automatic pistols for emergency use, but kept them in a locker in my cabin. I walked over to the bench and looked at the half-disassembled plasma rifle.

“Nice gun.” The Manag were a multi-limbed and warlike race from the coreward reaches of the Multiplicity. I’d never seen one of the creatures in the flesh, but knew aficionados prized the weapons they made for their rugged durability.

“Thanks.”

“Are we okay?”

She didn’t look up. “Depends what you mean by okay.”

I watched her work a small brush into the rifle’s barrel. She pushed it in and out a few times, then withdrew it and blew down the pipe.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just okay, I guess.”

“You’re still the captain.”

“Was there some possibility I might not be?”

Carefully, Alva laid her tools on the bench. “I promised myself when I signed on that if you were a complete asshole I’d frag you and take command of the ship.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that the breath caught in my throat. “And yet you haven’t?”

“No.”

“Can I ask why not?”

Wrists still resting against the edge of the bench, she flexed her fingers. The tattoos on her arms rippled. “You’re not a total asshole.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.” There was an edge to her voice as hard and inflexible as any of the guns displayed in this mostly empty room. I stepped back from the bench.

“From you, it sounds like one.”

“Well, it’s not.”