“… Code Black / Eyes Only. I remember this dance.” He threw his arms up. Searching the room, he settled into a chair. His mouth itched, and his fingers groped about as if he, too, were anxious for a drink. “It have anything to do with my diplomatic mission to Mars being suddenly scuttled in favor of Titan duty? Those ‘Eyes’ have any appreciation for how long I lobbied and waited for that assignment?”

Stacia remained silent, the star chart revolved around her to adjust for the Cypher’s position.

They both understood that her station required her to keep things from people. From him. So much of Stacia was her job. She would not be made to feel bad for working so hard to find her way into rooms of power, where the big decisions were made, to be a voice for her community. That was one of the things that drew Yahya to her. As was so often the case, the light that drew interest burned when held too close. As captain, most of her life, days, and orders were hidden behind the wall of Code Black / Eyes Only. Yahya had become convinced that she began using it as a convenient wall to keep him out of her life. In the quiet places of her heart, she couldn’t disagree.

“Today was Leah’s Naming Ceremony. Did you see her?” With a slight hitch of his breath, he stopped himself. She remembered this dance, his reflexive need to add, “Or is that Code Black / Eyes Only, too?” But he didn’t. He was trying. They both were.

“I saw her briefly. Her name is now Amachi. She’s become a ranking member of the Adisa family.”

“That means she’s a full member of the Ijo.”

“Yes.”

“Was she read in?”

“Yes.”

“So she knows whatever it is that weighs on you.” Piece by piece, line by line, Yahya completed one of his rhetorical traps. It annoyed her that she got so caught up in the rhythm of his words that she just did the yankadi right into it. A skilled orator, he definitely had studied poetry at a high level and could have done so at a professional level if so inclined. Specializing in improvised rhyme, to hear him tell it, he often battled and bested other poets back in the day. Coming at her now with the intensity of a prosecutor, he loved being so damn clever, believing it part of his charm. It wasn’t.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?” He backed up a step, a protest of faux innocence.

“It’s not a competition. It never was.”

“I understand that more clearly than anyone.” Yahya’s shoulders slouched, the wind taken out of him in defeat. Glancing about, he settled into a chair. As he got comfortable, he muttered, “A competition implies each side actually has a chance.”