Consciousness returned in stages, each one worse than the last.

  First: the headache. A dull, comprehensive pressure that started at the base of my skull and radiated outward, as though every brain cell was sore from too much of a workout.

  Second: the mouth. Dry. Catastrophically dry.

  Third: the couch. I was on the common room couch. The anti-grav suspension and smart cushioning were doing their best to make the position less uncomfortable, but nothing could make it actually comfortable. I was lying on the couch like a discarded blanket. My body was not supposed to bend that much.

  Fourth: the clothing. I was shirtless. I was wearing my pants and shoes. And there was something wrapped around my neck. A scarf. It was not my scarf. I did not own a scarf. I had no idea whose scarf this was.

  Fifth: the weight.

  There was weight on me.

  My brain processed this information with agonizing slowness. Weight. Across my chest, over my left arm, warm and present and very much there.

  I opened one eye.

  Seraphine Ventari, Fleet Captain of the Imperial Navy, was asleep on top of me.

  She was curled against my side and half across my chest, one arm draped over me, her face pressed into the gap between my shoulder and the couch cushion. She was fully clothed in last night's designer outfit. I could feel her body moving to the rhythm of her breath. She had an expression of calm and serenity, and a hint of drool at the corner of her mouth.

  I froze.

  My brain, already struggling, attempted to process the implications of this scene.

  I was wearing pants. I was wearing shoes. She was fully clothed. The spare bedroom sat twenty meters away, unused. Nothing had happened. Nothing except two people drinking too much, making it as far as the couch, and passing out in a configuration that owed more to gravity and alcohol than to any kind of intentional intimacy.

  This was absurd. This was Hangover-movie absurd. I was shirtless, wearing someone else's scarf, pinned to a couch by a sleeping noblewoman, and I could not remember a single thing after Cornelius's trophy bottle.

  Fragments surfaced. More singing. Someone suggesting "one more round". Cornelius carrying the bottle. Rosalia's voice, floating between grief and laughter, a ballad fading into something quieter. The common room lights dimming automatically as the circadian system decided it was bedtime, regardless of what the occupants thought about the matter.

  Seraphine stirred, turning her head slightly. Her eyes opened, unfocused, blinked once. She looked up at me, and for exactly one second, her expression was open and unguarded and utterly baffled.

  Then she looked at the ceiling. Specifically, at the time display projected on its surface in soft amber numerals.

  The change was instantaneous. Her eyes widened. Her body tensed. And then she was moving.

  "No," she said. Not to me. To the universe in general. "No, no, no."

  She was off the couch in a motion that combined the urgency of a combat scramble with the coordination of someone whose motor systems were still booting up. She stood, swayed, caught herself on the edge of the adaptive chair, and looked around the room with the focused panic of a captain whose ship was going to hyperspace without her.

  "My shift," she said. "I have twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to get to the Navy section and..."

  She looked down at herself. At the designer party clothes. At the disheveled hair. At the general state of someone who had very obviously not been anywhere near a uniform or a regulation grooming standard for the past twelve hours.

  The calculation completed. The result was not good.

  She grabbed her purse, took out a small square of fabric that unfolded into a large, thin, dark green cape, and used it to cover her body. She then snatched something off the table that might have been her personal communicator and headed for the door. She was not running, but her walk was fast enough that she could have been.

  "This didn't happen," she said from the doorway. "I'll comm you later."

  The door closed and she was gone, leaving me blinking, my brain still hurting and working too slowly to properly process what had just happened.

  I sat on the couch. Stunned.

  A door opened behind me. Rosalia emerged from her room in what appeared to be a fresh outfit, her hair brushed, her expression composed with a precision that seemed specifically designed to contrast with the carnage of the common room.

  She surveyed the scene. The scattered glasses. The empty bottles. The party platters with their congealed remains. Me, on the couch, in my current state.

  "I made coffee," she said, walking to the kitchen area.

  She extracted a steaming mug from the coffee machine, and walked up to me. "I also added hangover medicine to it. You look like you need it."

  I accepted the beverage with both hands, holding it like a sacred artifact. The warmth helped. The caffeine helped. The medicine, whatever it was, worked miracles. After a single sip, the headache receded and the fog in my head cleared. I still felt tired, and sore from my sleeping posture.

  I took another long sip, then looked down at my bare chest, then at the scarf still draped around my neck. I pulled it off and examined it. Expensive fabric. Definitely not mine.

  "Rosalia. Can I ask you something?"

  "You're going to ask about her clothes."

  I blinked. "How did you?"

  "Because you've been staring at ceilings every time she walks in off-duty, and it's not subtle." She sat down across from me with her own cup, folding one leg beneath her. "Go ahead."

  "Is that... normal? The way she dresses when she's off-duty? Because twice now she's shown up wearing things that... I mean, by my world's standards..."

  "By your archaic Earth standards, it's scandalous. Yes, I'm aware." Rosalia took a measured sip. "To answer your question: no, it's not typical. Imperial fashion is generally quite formal. Conservative, even, compared to what you've seen from Seraphine. But among the nobility, there's a tradition of wearing designer originals. Unique pieces from well-known fashion houses. It's a status display. Showing you're wearing art, not just clothing. The more famous the designer, the more outrageous the piece, the louder the statement."

  "And Seraphine's statement is...?"

  "That she has excellent taste, deep pockets, and absolutely no reservations about her body." Rosalia's expression turned thoughtful. "But it's not just the fashion. It's her. In school, she already had a reputation. She was the most disciplined student. Perfect marks, perfect posture, perfect composure. Then she'd go off-campus and..." Rosalia paused, searching for the diplomatic phrasing. "Transform. Completely. The parties she attended were legendary. Other students didn't know what to make of her. It made people genuinely uncomfortable; the gap between the two modes was so extreme."

  "So this is just... how she is."

  Rosalia gave me a look that was suspiciously neutral. "This is how she's always been. Whether she's amplifying it for a particular audience, I couldn't possibly say."

  The evening that followed was the first since we'd arrived that Seraphine didn't visit, and if I was honest with myself, I was relieved.

  The morning's situation had left a residue of awkwardness that I hadn't yet figured out how to process. Nothing had happened. But I didn't know what to say about it. I wasn't sure anything needed to be said.

  Cornelius and Rosalia and I had a subdued dinner at the common room table. Low voices, simple food, comfortable silence. No one mentioned the party. No one mentioned the morning after.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I went to bed early. The anti-grav mattress embraced me with its adaptive warmth, and I was asleep in minutes.

  The following evening, the lighting rippled toward the door and the concierge spoke.

  "Fleet Captain Ventari, active duty, requests entry."

  She walked in as though the previous morning had never happened. Not a trace of awkwardness, not a flicker of acknowledgment. Her posture was crisp, her uniform pressed, her expression carrying the focused energy of someone with updates to deliver.

  "We received news on the Inquisitor's ship," she said, taking her usual seat. "They encountered some unfavorable currents in hyperspace, but they are getting close. A matter of days now before arrival. The station administration is already in full panic. I expect several senior officials to resign before the Inquisitor even docks."

  "Good for them," I said.

  "Good for us," she corrected. "The more chaos they're dealing with internally, the less attention anyone pays to our movements." She paused. "Speaking of which. My raid planning is nearly finalized. Both targets, coordinated timing, full tactical package. I am eagerly waiting for you to sort out your citizenship and guild registration." She looked at me with an intensity that was entirely on-duty. "I've watched the flight recorder data from the Cymatic Halo and the Reizen engagement. Both of them. Multiple times. I want to see what you can do when you're not improvising against impossible odds. I want to see you fight properly."

  "You'll get your chance," I said. "Soon."

  She nodded, satisfied, and the briefing moved on to logistics.

  Later, as the conversation loosened over dinner, Rosalia steered the topic of conversation toward a subject that must have been on her mind for some time.

  "The dress you wore to the party," she said casually. "That was a Vellaran original, wasn't it?"

  Seraphine glanced up from her plate. "It was."

  "Those run... what, one or two hundred thousand credits for a commissioned piece?"

  "Significantly more, usually. But I didn't buy it. It was a gift. Second-hand, technically. My aunt wore it to an industry gala, then passed it along to me. She doesn't wear the same outfit twice when she attends public events."

  Rosalia's eyebrows rose. "Your aunt gives away unique designer pieces that cost a small fortune."

  "She's very generous. And she has more clothes than storage space." Seraphine said it with the casual ease of someone describing a mildly eccentric relative. "She works in entertainment. She's fairly well-known. Rebecca Helden."

  I froze, then set my glass down too fast. It hit the table harder than I had anticipated.

  "You know Frielda," I said, and my voice came out approximately two octaves higher than intended. "Your aunt is Frielda from Chester and Frielda."

  Seraphine looked at me with an expression of patient amusement.

  "No," she said. "Frielda does not exist. I know the actress who plays her."

  "That's... that's basically the same thing!"

  "It is demonstrably not the same thing."

  My brain was short-circuiting. Frielda. The woman who convinced the stoic Chester that the best way to bypass a customs blockade was to disguise their ship as a migratory space whale using tons of illegal cheese. The artful anarchist whose irreverent chaos had been my daily companion through months of isolation at Hyperion Deep.

  And her aunt was the actress behind all of it.

  "I need to meet her," I said. "This is now a priority. This is higher priority than the pirate raid."

  "It is not higher priority than the pirate raid," Cornelius said gently.

  "Cornelius is correct," Seraphine said, but she was smiling. She was clearly enjoying my reaction. "Besides, Aunt Becky lives near the Imperial core. You'd need access to some of the most expensive hypergates in the Empire to get there. Shelve the idea for now."

  "Aunt Becky," I repeated, slightly dazed. "You call Frielda Aunt Becky."

  "I call Rebecca Helden Aunt Becky, because that is her name and she is my aunt," Seraphine said, with exaggerated patience. "She married into the Helden family after she became famous. They are minor nobility, part of the Ventari clan. It gave her a title and social access, which she used to expand her career. We got a respectable, very successful and very famous actress. Also she's filthy rich." She tilted her head, studying my expression with amusement. "And she is nothing like Frielda. She's the complete opposite, actually. Quiet. A bit shy in person. Very professional, very focused. The kind of woman who memorizes an entire script in one reading and then asks the director detailed questions about character motivation for two hours."

  "That makes it better," I said. "That somehow makes it even better."

  "You are going to have to calm down," Cornelius said, and there was a quiet firmness beneath his amusement that told me my psionic field was probably broadcasting excitement like a distress beacon.

  I took a breath. Clamped down. Tried to think about boring things. Tax law. Customs forms. The specific gravity of administrative paperwork.

  "Better," Cornelius said.

  Seraphine watched this exchange with curiosity. "Is he always like this about entertainment?"

  "No," Rosalia said. "Only about Chester and Frielda. He is genuinely obsessed. He made us watch the entire run. All twelve seasons." She paused. "I will admit the writing improved significantly after season five."

  "It's a masterpiece and you know it," I said.

  "I know that you cracked three ribs doing a barrel roll and the first thing you said when you got back to the cockpit was a Chester quote," Rosalia replied.

  Seraphine laughed. "I'll tell Aunt Becky she has a fan. She'll be delighted."

  I spent the rest of the evening in a state of quiet euphoria that no amount of psionic training could fully contain.

  The day after, attorney Mensah walked in with an expression that screamed good news.

  "It's done," he said.

  Rosalia set down her reading tablet. I closed the legal text I'd been studying. Cornelius looked up from his tea.

  "Both citizenship applications have been approved," Mensah continued, producing his holo-tablet and projecting the relevant documents onto the suite's display surface. Lines of Imperial legalese materialized in amber light. "Imperial citizenship and political asylum, effective immediately. One of you needs to retrieve the documents in person."

  He turned to Rosalia first. "Your terms," he said, and his voice shifted to the careful, neutral register of a lawyer delivering news. "Formal relinquishment of all diplomatic status associated with the Kingdom of the Blue Suns. Severance of all legal ties to the vassal state. And a permanent ban on entry into kingdom territory."

  He let each point land. Rosalia listened with her hands folded in front of her, her posture straight, her expression attentive.

  "I'll need your signature on the acknowledgment forms, confirming that you understand and accept these terms," Mensah finished.

  Rosalia didn't hesitate. She reached for the holo-tablet, reviewed the forms with the quick, practiced eye of someone who'd been reading legal documents her entire life, and signed. Clean, decisive strokes on the authentication panel. No wavering. No pause for dramatic reflection.

  "It's done," she said, and her voice was steady. Relieved. "I'm looking forward to the next chapter."

  She meant it. I could hear the genuine release in her voice. She was free. But as she set the tablet down, her hand rested on its surface a second longer than necessary.

  The kingdom had been corrupt, her family complicit in atrocity, and she'd dreamed of exactly this kind of severance for years. But the vassal state had been her home.

  I didn't press. She'd talk about it when she was ready. Or she wouldn't. Either way, I'd be there.

  Mensah turned to me. I signed the forms and skimmed the profile someone had built for me.

  On the surface, it was simple: I was a refugee from the Kingdom of the Blue Suns, a former member of Rosalia's retinue who had fled with her during the upheaval. Boring, believable. The kind of file a customs officer would glance at and wave through.

  Deeper in, for anyone with more clearance, the story shifted. I was fleeing the Church of Enlightened Knowledge, specifically a radical splinter group called the Adepts of the Absolute Truth. Imperial protection applied. Classification: restricted. Do not investigate further.

  Both were clever misdirections, that hid the real secret.

  It was tidy work, and I was very glad someone else had done it. My skill set was flying, not inventing spy-grade paperwork. If I had tried to build my own cover identity, I probably would have filed myself as cargo by mistake.

  Whoever had built this deserved a thank-you note. I'd settle for flying well enough to justify their investment.

  "Now," Mensah said, closing the holo-tablet. "All the procedures have been followed. Only one item remains: collection. The official certificates need to be retrieved from the administrative offices in person." He turned to me. "As a former member of Miss Rainmaker's retinue, and because your applications were joined as a single request, she can legally collect it for you."

  "I'll go," Rosalia said immediately. "With Mensah. Nico stays here. It will be safer that way."

  No argument from me.

  "Tomorrow I'll go to the mercenary guild," I said. "With proper escort this time. Security detail, planned route. I'll get Seraphine's approval. The full package."

  Rosalia nodded. Mensah noted the timeline. Cornelius made a quiet sound of agreement.

  The plan crystallized, and with it came a wave of optimism so clear and bright that I had to consciously keep it from bleeding into my psionic field. This was almost done. Citizenship: secured. Guild registration: tomorrow. Seraphine's pirate raid: on the horizon, waiting for us like a promise written in starlight. The Mahkkra was docked and ready, and soon I'd have every legal right to sit in that cockpit and take contracts and fly into the kind of trouble I'd spent years dreaming about.

  Rosalia and Mensah gathered their things and left.

  Cornelius and I sat in the common room. He had his tea. I had the last of the coffee Rosalia had made. The smart-glass window was dialed to low opacity, and through it the station's exterior stretched in all directions: docking spars, navigation lights, and the slow, massive rotation of the outer ring against a field of stars that went on forever..

  "It's a good day," Cornelius said.

  "Yeah," I said. "It really is. Let's start working on the details of my trip to the guild tomorrow."

  I started moving to my room to gather some materials I had left there.

  The window exploded.