Zeck lounged on the bunk he'd claimed as his own, his left foot dangling off the edge. John lay on his bunk, facing the wall and snoozing. Steven's bunk was strewn with spare parts, wires, tools, and junk that they'd salvaged from the ruins. The floor was covered, too. Steven sat with the dissembled bloodhound between his knees. He pointed at the floor by Zeck's foot. “Hand me that spanner, corsair.”

“Putting aside for a moment the fact that I've told you a thousand times I'm not a pirate,” said Zeck, “what do you have against pirates anyway?”

“You mean besides the raping, pillaging, theft, and general destruction?”

“Well, yeah, that's a given.”

“It's none of your business.”

“Come now,” said Zeck. “I've explained that these aren't my clothes, yet you persist in taking out your hatred of pirates, or 'corsairs,' on me, day in, day out for a fortnight now. You could at least tell me why.”

Steven set down the component he was holding and wiped his hands on his pants. “All right,” he said, “if you must know, I used to have a brother. Charlie. Four years older than me. Thick as thieves, we were. My Dad sold him to corsairs when I was ten years old. Charlie was fourteen.

“It wasn't blackmail or or anything. They didn't kidnap Charlie. No, my Dad needed money. He always does, but half his usual gang had been pinched in some heist they bolloxed, so he didn't have the crew for a big job. He runs small grifts all the time, but he needed a lot more than those would bring in, and he needed it fast. Don't ask why. It doesn't matter. It wasn't even the pirates he owed money to, it was some chemic from a town out West. He just happened to have a connection that hooked him up with a buyer. A buyer for his son. I guess I'm lucky they didn't want somebody as young as me. He'd have sold either of us to anybody.

“The pirates gave him a good price, if you can call it that. Enough to pay off his debt, with interest, and a little left over to gamble and piss away. Charlie was supposed to serve until he turned eighteen, and then they'd set him free. That was the deal. There was a written contract and everything. Four years. I was so excited when his eighteenth birthday finally came. I couldn't fucking wait to see my brother again. I made a present for him, made it myself from parts I scavenged for months. It was a- doesn't matter what it was. I knew he'd like it.

“He didn't show up right away, but it takes time to travel, you know? And these were West Coast pirates. So I waited. I waited for weeks. A month. Six months. Watched the door, waiting for him to come striding in with a big smile on his face. 'Stevie,' he'd say. He was the only one who ever got to call me that. Except for Mum. But he never showed up. I figured the pirates had gone back on the contract and kept him. Or he'd died on the high seas. Turned out, not only was he not dead, the pirates had kept their word. Set him free on his eighteenth birthday with a parting gift and a brand new suit.

“Anyway, my Dad got word through the grapevine that Charlie had found a new line of work. Mercenary. Murder for hire. He slits people's throats for cash while they sleep. He's in the guild and everything. My brother never would have done something like that. Not the Charlie I knew. Corsairs did that to him. All the goodness that was in him, the conscience and the light in his heart and the best of him, all the good parts that my dad hadn't managed to beat out of him, the pirates killed it all. So when you show up dressed exactly like you want everybody to think you're a corsair, don't blame me when I don't believe some cock-and-bull story about picking up the wrong luggage at the airport. Now, are you gonna hand me that fucking spanner, or what?”

Zeck handed him the tool. “I'm sorry about your brother,” he said after a long silence.

“Why?” said Steven. “The rest of my family's shit, why shouldn't he be? Except Mum, of course.” He muttered the last to himself, his eyes cast downward.

“Would it help if I told you that the man I stole this outfit from is not exactly a friend of mine? In fact, I'm quite sure I've made an enemy of him.”

“Why should I care?” said Steven.

“Because these clothes belong to Scrimshander.”

“Scrimshander?” said Steven. “That bloke who does the sea chanties?”

“That's him,” said Zeck.

“I hate that guy,” said Steven. “The only thing worse than a pirate is a shitty musician pretending to be a pirate.”

“Well, it turns out he's not pretending as much as you might think. I was hired to do some synth work on his latest album. I love a good sea chanty, and I hate to be complicit in their butchery, but I needed cash, and he seemed willing to pay. I suppose I should have known better, but I thought the stories about him were all hogwash. He invited me on tour with him, and promised to pay me after the European leg. To make a long story short, we had a bit of a dispute concerning precisely how much money I was owed for the work. It all came to head while we were going through customs on the way back from New Belgium. That's when the whole running through the airport naked, stealing his clothes and teleport sphere thing happened.”

“So you stole your clothes from a pirate pretending to be a pop star pretending to be a pirate?”

“Precisely.”

“That's not much better. But I guess I believe you. If you were lying, I'd expect your story to get better, not dumber. Anyway, that was some pretty sweet synth work earlier. Where'd you learn that from?”

“My mother,” said Zeck. “She used to be in a couple of Nova Synth groups. She did some solo work, too. Taught me everything I know about sound.”

“No kidding? What bands?”

“She was with Speckle Pattern for years, but she started out in a duo called Antiphase.”

Steven's jaw dropped. “Are you kidding? I love Antiphase. I used to listen to Spatial Coherence nonstop.”

“No kidding? That's one of my favorites, too.”

“I can't believe Marina Strauss is your mother. I guess that explains your sweet skills. Runs in the family.”

“Thanks,” said Zeck. “I just wish I could remember what I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. I have no memory of the trial, or anything else between playing the first note and the door to the bunker opening.”

“You don't remember playing Ruby Cadence? At all? Did you black out or something?”

Zeck shook his head. “I think it had something to do with the initiation trial. I'm not sure. It was-”

Sheryl knocked on the open door frame. “I hope I'm not interrupting,” she said. Burts was leaned against her, one arm around her shoulders, like a friend who'd had too much to drink.

“Come on in,” said Zeck. “Er, if you can find space to walk.”

Steven started clearing a path for her.

“Thank you, but I can't stay,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that supper will be hot rations in the cafe at nineteen-hundred hours. Bunting and Murkle will be cooking.”

“There are hot rations?” said Zeck.

“As opportunity allows,” said Sheryl. “They're usually saved for holidays or special occasions.”

“First hot meal in weeks,” said Steven. “I can't complain about that.”

“Is he okay?” Zeck asked, nodding at Burts.

Burts tried to say something, but all that came out was labored breath.

“He needs some food. And fresh air,” said Sheryl. “We'll see you upstairs. Come on, Burts. I've got you.”

Corporal Bunting seemed to relish serving duty. He and Murkle made an efficient team. Cold rations consisted of pre-portioned meals that were simply distributed. Hot meals were meant to be cooked, and though the ingredients were all pre-measured and packaged in cryo-vacs, they still required some skill in the kitchen. Bunting and Murkle made full use of the two hot plates and even employed the espresso machine's steam function for the vegetables. In the end, they presented the company with a simple but very welcome buffet that included bison steak, sliced and served with a garlic sauce, a vegetarian alternative of seitan cooked nearly perfectly, mashed potatoes, biscuits somehow cooked on the stove top, a medley of steamed vegetables, and asparagus with lemon juice and pepper. There was also a creamy soup with chicken, broccoli, and mushrooms.

Sheryl made sure that Burts had plenty to eat before she got any herself. His metabolism already required twice the caloric intake of an average male human, and he'd been shocked by the Colonel's implant and stuffed inside a packhorse for the better part of the day. He mustered the energy to give Sheryl a quick “Thank you,” before tucking in.

Chad came up from the Colonel's room and loaded up a single plate, then disappeared back downstairs without a word.

“My compliments to the chefs,” said Zeck.

“Mh, hm,” said John around a mouthful of biscuit.

“It weren't nothing,” said Bunting. He elbowed Murkle in the ribs. “I bet you're glad to have a hot meal at last, eh? Don't have to burn yourself but once today.”

Murkle held up his hand and glanced at the back of it, at all the little red marks in neat rows. “Twice,” he said. “We had hardtack for breakfast. I don't mind the kiss of the tine. But I do prefer a hot meal.” He shoved another spoonful of soup into his mouth.

“I've been wondering about that,” said Zeck. “I've seen you with the tine. Every time you eat a cold ration, you have to burn yourself as punishment? If you don't mind my asking.”

“It's not so much a punishment as a reminder,” said Murkle. “We owe our entire history, the very existence of the human race, to fire. It was when we started cooking our food that we developed larger brains. We had more time and energy to build and think, for fire unlocks more nutrition than simple chewing and digestion can. Without fire, we'd still be hiding in the trees from the lions. Fire-hardened spears turned us from prey into predators.”

“I'll second that,” said Bob. Captain Solomon snorted. Bob ignored her. “How are you enjoying that steak, Steven?” he asked. “Just the thing for a growing boy.”

“I'm a vegetarian,” said Steven. “I'm having the seitan.”

Bob started to laugh, then realized Steven wasn't joking. “No,” he said. “We've been supping together for days and days. I'd have known if you were vegetarian.”

“I didn't want to make a big deal of it,” Steven said. “And it's not like there's a load of meat in the cold rations, besides the jerky. Great seitan, by the way,” he said to the Tephra. “Most people can't cook it right, and it ends up all rubbery. But this is perfect.”

“That's all Murkle,” said Bunting. “Well done, lad.”

Sheryl took a bite or two of mashed potatoes before setting her fork down. “I'm going to see if Corrigan's awake,” she said. “See if he has an appetite.” She left her plate where it was and went downstairs.

“Should we go with her?” Irving asked Solomon.

“Why?” said Solomon.

“Keep Corrigan company. Bring food, if he wants it. Help him eat.”

Solomon scoffed. “I'm going to enjoy my food while it's hot,” she said. “If Lieutenant Teymore wants us to help her spoon-feed that twit, she can order us to. And if Corrigan can't feed himself, he shouldn't be eating anyway. We're a squadron, not a daycare. She's my commander, so I'll follow her orders, but that's all. Corrigan's an idiot, but he was right about one thing: she's not Sparassa. She's an all right hunter, but she's not a soldier. She didn't even make it as an attercop.”

“Now, that's simply false,” said Bob. “She was the best partner I could have hoped for. And a damn sight better soldier than you'll ever be.”

“This from the man who doesn't even know the dietary needs of his own recruits,” said Solomon with a laugh. “Sure, she's a great commander. A great attercop, too. Dragging four useless prisoners across the wasteland, just so they can eat all our food, get in our way, slow us down. The wizard helped us out a couple of times, I guess. And the super-soldier can fight as well as anybody. But the other two-” she pointed to Steven and Zeck. “A child who does nothing but talk back. And a- I don't know what this guy is, but whatever it is, I don't like it. If they were my prisoners, I'd have given them their trial on the spot.” She made a casual motion with her knife across her throat. “Instead, the Colonel drafts them into service, just because the Lieutenant likes them or something. I don't know what it is, but she's got something on him.”

“I'll go,” said Zeck. “Just get me out of this yoke, and I'll be on my way.”

“You shouldn't joke about that, said Bob.

A door opened and shut downstairs. Slow footsteps climbed the stairs one at a time. Captain Corrigan appeared after a moment, leaning heavily on Sheryl. He was in his silk underclothes. “I can do it,” he said when they reached the top of the stairs. “Let me go.” She took her arm away from his trunk and let him hobble forward on his own. His legs hadn't been injured, but he walked as if he'd shattered every bone in his body. Sheryl helped him into a chair. He gritted his teeth. “Numbness is wearing off fast.”

Irving offered him a plate of food. “I can get you different stuff if you want,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said, but didn't move to eat anything.

“I know a spell that might help with the pain,” said Murkle. “Maybe not a lot, but it would dampen it a little.”

Sheryl shook her head. “No relief for him. Colonel's orders.”

“He doesn't need your little cantrips, anyway,” said Solomon. “My cousin's Caustic. I know what spell you're talking about. They use it on little kids so the tine doesn't hurt so much. Sparassa are not children.”

“This could be his last meal,” said Zeck.

“Yeah, sure,” said Corrigan. He looked up at Sheryl. “She'll never execute me. The Colonel might, but she doesn't have the scrote to do it.”

“She saved your life,” said Irving. “And she's our leader. Show some respect.”

Corrigan let out a half laugh, half sigh. He winced.

“He can say what he wants,” said Sheryl. “He's already suspended from duty. And pain has a way of sharpening the tongue.” She picked up her fork and continued eating. Her food had cooled considerably.

“It's not the pain that loosened my tongue, bitch,” said Corrigan. “I realized on the operating table-” he grimaced and pawed at his shoulder. “I realized I can say what I want. Do what I want, and you're not going to do anything to me. Suspension with pay? A court martial? Unh.” He clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth squeaked. Tears ran from his eyes. “A court martial hasn't stuck to a Corrigan in a hundred years. You should have tried me on the spot and executed me, instead of dragging me back here and playing doctor. Ah!” He doubled over, nearly dipping his face into his food. He cried out again, but it was cut short as his entire body tensed. He jerked back in his chair, teeth bared, eyes scrunched shut.

“That will be the anesthetic wearing off,” said Sheryl. She set her fork on her plate and pushed it away.

“What did you do to me!?” It started as a scream, but was muffled to a groan by the clenching of Corrigan's throat.

“I gave you a local anesthetic before I put you under,” said Sheryl. “The effect lingers for a time, but wears off quickly. It's vital that an analgesic be administered when the patient awakes if the pain is to be managed chemically.” She sounded like she was reciting from a lesson.

“But what- but-” Corrigan tried to form a sentence, but he could barely get a word out. He slid out of his chair and curled up on the floor on his right side.

“But it already hurt?” said Sheryl. “That was a shadow of the pain you'll feel in a moment. I've seen venom like this before. I've felt it myself. You'll feel things you didn't know your body was capable of.”

“That's cold,” said Solomon with the hint of a smile. “I may have been wrong about you. Looks like keeping him alive wasn't so much an act of mercy. I'd have never thought of such a punishment.”

Sheryl glanced at Solomon, then Corrigan, then looked away from everybody. “Colonel's orders,” she said.

“I think I'll turn in early tonight,” said Zeck. He was not quite done with his meal, but he scraped the leftovers into the collection bucket for Ouroboros's slop trough.

“I'm with you there,” said John. “Been a long day.”

“Sit.” The Colonel's voice cut through the room like a gunshot. He'd come up the stairs quietly with Chad close behind. He was fully suited again. Chad carried something in his hand. The quiet calmness of their entrance made the Colonel's sudden command all the harsher. Zeck and John rushed back to their seats.

Corrigan lay in the fetal position on the floor. He looked up as the Colonel stood over him. His eyes were clear, fully awake and aware.

“Can you stand?” the Colonel asked. “On your own, unaided?”

Corrigan groaned something that sounded vaguely like a “Yes.” He rolled onto his back, winced, rolled back the other way. He managed to tumble forward into a sitting position, but it was several excruciating minutes before he made it to his feet. The Colonel stood over him and stared the entire time. Nobody moved to help Corrigan. He used the back of a chair to pull himself up, and wobbled a bit when he took his hand away, but at last he managed to stand at something resembling attention. Tears ran silently down his face.

The Colonel spoke formally, as if reading from a text written on his HUD. He may have been doing just that. “Captain Corrigan of the Sparassa, Manticore division. You deliberately defied the direct orders of a superior officer, placing yourself and your comrades in unnecessary peril. As a direct result of your actions, you have been seriously wounded. You have depleted vital medical supplies. You have shown no respect for the web of command, and you have disregarded the authority of Lieutenant Teymore and, by extension, her commanding officer, Colonel Destroyer. As this is wartime, and I am the commanding officer of this company and in this locale, I have the authority to try you, judge you, sentence you, and carry out that sentence, whatever it may be, in any manner I see fit. Chad, the phials.”

Chad handed two phials to the Colonel.

“I've made this simple for you,” said the Colonel. “These will be your trial and your sentence. It turns out that the animal you so carelessly attacked happens to produce a very interesting venom, similar to that of a platypus.” He held up one of the phials. “Even a small amount of it can cause excruciating pain in the recipient, lasting for hours or even days. You received a hefty dose from the spikes on its tail, but it was nowhere near the amount I have collected in this phial. In this one, on the other hand,” he held up the other bottle, “I have collected a sample of all the toxins that were present in the creature's flesh, which our company would have ingested had we eaten it as you intended. Ingested in that way, sickness and death would have been slow and uncomfortable. You and all of your comrades would have spent the night writhing on the floor in grotesque illness, begging for a death that would not come for hours. Concentrated in this phial, the poisons herein would cause the heart to stop within seconds.

“I present you with this choice.” He held one phial in an upturned palm in front of Corrigan. “Immediate relief from your pain. Peace. Tranquility. A soothing darkness. And a dishonorable posthumous discharge. Your name stricken from the scrolls. Your sponsor family shamed. A black mark upon their name that may take generations to sponge away. Your career as a soldier ended in the worst way possible.”

He held up the other phial. “Or a full injection of chimera venom. A portion in each limb, as well as your abdomen and lower back, your neck, and your genitals. It won't harm you; it's only pain. It will be greater physical pain than most humans will ever experience. Greater than childbirth or kidney stones. Much greater than what you're feeling now. If you happened to pass out, we would revive you. Should you undergo cardiac arrest or seizure, we would apply whatever medical treatment necessary to keep you among the living. And your transgression would be forgiven and stricken from the record. Your career with the Sparassa would continue unimpeded, with your suspension lifted immediately. You would receive a notation by your name in the scrolls, indicating that you were injured in the line of duty. Your sponsor family would be proud. And you would gain my respect. Choose now.”

Corrigan didn't hesitate. He tapped the phial he wanted. Chad handed the Colonel an injector.

“It sickens me that one so weak, so lacking in discipline and respect could find his way into the Sparassa,” said the Colonel. “If you have any final words, keep them to yourself.” He stabbed the injector into Corrigan's neck. The former Captain collapsed instantly.

“Learn from this,” said the Colonel to the rest of the company. “For your own sake, and the sake of your comrades. For the sake of the Empire, and the future of the human race. Captain Irving, Captain Solomon, you answer directly to Lieutenant Teymore. She is your commanding officer, and you are to follow her orders without question. Private Murkle, you answer to Corporal Bunting. Recruits Strauss, Broyle, Derman, and Fawth, you answer to Captain Jaut of the Imperial Guard. All of you answer to me. Do I make myself clear?”

Nobody hesitated to answer, “Aye.”

“Good. Corporal Bunting, you and Murkle take care of this body. Derman assures me that the ring of stone outside is a safe place to build a fire without the dryads throwing a tantrum. I'll hold him to it. Perform whatever rites you wish, just get this sad excuse for a soldier out of my sight. Burn his armor as well; it's been sullied. Broyle, get to work on that bloodhound. I want it up and running as soon as possible. Do you require assistance, or additional tools?”

Steven shook his head.

“If that changes, tell Captain Jaut. Jaut, make sure Broyle has everything he needs to do his work. The rest of you, clean this place and get some rest. We're leaving this forest at oh-eight-hundred sharp. That means you need to be awake, fed, clean, dressed, packed, and on your horses ready to ride out. You have more than enough time, so I expect you to be well rested and ready to go when the morning comes.”

The Colonel paused by Zeck on his way out. “Lieutenant Teymore,” he said, “and recruit Strauss, I'd like to request the pleasure of your company for conversation and digestifs in my quarters. Perhaps a bit of dessert.”

Zeck looked at the Colonel for a moment. He looked at Sheryl, then around the table at everybody else. “Was it- Did you say Strauss?”

“Yes,” said the Colonel.

“I, er. That's me, you know,” said Zeck. “I'm recruit Strauss.”

“Yes, I'm quite aware. I understand you enjoy a good cocktail.”

“On occasion,” said Zeck warily.

“Good. You'll join me, then.” He strode away without waiting for a response.

Sheryl leaned over and whispered into Zeck's ear, “Saying no is not really an option. Come in, drink, be polite and don't talk too much. And don't say anything about the way he looks. Or the way he smells. Or anything else, if you can help it.”

“Do you know why he's asked to see me?”

“No,” said Sheryl. “But I'll be there, too. You'll be fine.”

Zeck stood up. “I suppose I have time for a little drink with the Colonel. But if he expects to hold his liquor against me, he's gonna be staring at the underside of a table.” His eyes fell on Corrigan's supine form, and he instantly regretted saying it.

Sheryl laid a hand on Corporal Bunting's arm and pulled him aside. “Will you wait for me to come out?” she asked. “I may be a little while, but before you light the pyre, will you wait for me?”

Bunting nodded and put his hand on hers. “Of course, Lieutenant. As you please.”