He scowled in response and his face twitched again. The hand he’d been flexing clenched into a fist.

“Perhaps that attitude’s the reason the Outward lost?” His voice was suddenly belligerent. He glared at me, daring me to take offence. Instead, I turned to the coffee pot and poured myself a cup.

“We didn’t lose,” I said over my shoulder, keeping my tone even, suppressing the flush of indignation his words had stirred. “After Pelapatarn, we just stopped fighting.” I inhaled steam from the cup and deliberately relaxed my posture. Then I turned to him. “And don’t let Clay hear you talking like that. Exoskeleton or not, she’ll kick your ass and flush the remains out the airlock. Do I make myself clear?”

We stood looking at each other for a long moment.

“Perfectly clear, Captain.”

I felt the tips of my ears redden. I took a sip of coffee to cover my annoyance.

“Why are you here?” There was an edge to my voice, as thin and sharp as a blade.

Childe looked around at the bulkheads. “I told you, I need a ride.”

“I know that’s what you said.”

I watched his eyes narrow, the skin at the corners wrinkling like old leather. He seemed to be having trouble marshalling his thoughts. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I can’t figure out why you’re here.” I drank some more coffee. He watched in silence, waiting for me to continue. When I started talking again, I spoke slowly, putting shape to my doubts as I expressed them. “I can understand the other one, Laura, being here,” I said. “An Outward ship went down and she’s an Outward agent. It’s you I can’t figure. You’re from the Conglomeration; what’s a crashed Outward liner to you?”

His jaw tightened. A drop of sweat ran down his face. “I told you, I’m looking for a specific passenger, one of our citizens.”

“But why rush to get there?” I took a step towards him, trying to sound conciliatory. “If there are any survivors, we’ll bring them back. We always do. It’s our job. Why do you need to get involved?”

Childe clicked his tongue. His pupils were dilated, and the sweat on his face made him look feverish.

“That’s my mission,” he said. “And in order to complete it, I need you to fly this ship for me.”

“She flies herself.”

“But she takes orders from you.” His voice had taken on a worrying edge of barely suppressed hysteria, and his fingers scratched at the drug panel set into the left forearm of his exoskeleton.

Oh, crap.

If he’d been messing with battlefield medication, there was no telling how fucked up he was. He could be juiced to the eyeballs on amphetamines and synthetic adrenalin.

I raised my hands, trying to calm the situation.