Sparrow snorted. “That and Chelomey.” In response to Kira’s inquiring look, she said, “We got hired by a guy named Griffith back at Alpha Centauri to bring in a load of, uh, sensitive cargo for a guy on Chelomey Station. Only our contact wasn’t there when we dropped off the goods. The idiot got himself arrested by station security. So the station wanted our asses as well. Griffith claims we failed delivery and won’t pay, and since we used up the last of our antimatter getting here, there wasn’t anything we could do about it.”

“And that,” said Falconi, emptying his glass, “is how we ended up stranded at 61 Cygni. Couldn’t land back at Chelomey and couldn’t land on Ruslan. Not, uh, legally, that is.”

“Gotcha.” Overall, it wasn’t as bad as Kira had feared. A bit of smuggling, a small amount of what might be classified as ecoterrorism … Really, she’d expected far worse.

Falconi waved his hand. “That’s all cleared up now, though.” He peered at her, his eyes slightly bleary from drink. “I suppose we have you to thank for that.”

“My pleasure.”

Later, once most of the food was cleared off the tables, Hwa-jung left her seat by Sparrow and vanished out the door.

When the machine boss returned, she brought with her Runcible and Mr. Fuzzypants, but also—tucked under one arm—the other thing Kira had asked her for.

“Here,” said Hwa-jung, and held out the concertina to Kira. “It just finished printing.”

Kira laughed and took the instrument. “Thank you!” Now she would have something to do other than stare at her overlays while she waited alone in the empty ship.

Falconi raised an eyebrow. “You play?”

“A little,” said Kira, slipping her hands through the straps and testing the keys. Then she performed a simple little arrangement called “Chiara’s Folly” as a warm-up.

The music brought a sense of cheer to the room, and the crew gathered in close. “Hey, you know ‘Toxopaxia’?” Sparrow asked.

“I do.”

Kira played until her fingers were numb, but she didn’t mind. And for a time, no thoughts of the future intruded, and life was good.

Mr. Fuzzypants still kept his distance from her, but at some point deep in the evening—long after she’d put aside the concertina—Kira found herself with Runcible’s warm weight in her lap while she scratched behind the pig’s ears and he wiggled his tail in delight. A surge of affection passed through Kira, and for the first time since the deaths of Alan and her other teammates, she felt herself relaxing, truly relaxing.

So maybe Falconi was a hard-edged bastard and their ship mind was eccentric and Sparrow was somewhat of a sadist and Trig was still just a kid and Hwa-jung was weird in her own ways and Vishal—Kira wasn’t sure what the deal was with Vishal, but he seemed nice enough—so maybe all that. So what? Nothing was ever perfect. Kira knew one thing for certain, though: she’d fight for Falconi and his crew. She’d fight for them the same as she would have for her team on Adra.