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Chapter 1:
Down and Out

When the trouble started, Fiona was daydreaming of her homeworld, of the scent of heather on the hills and the scream of the gulls above the shore.

She was in line, of course, her shoulder against the wall for support and her eyes closed. Standing in line was what life had become, on a space station turned into an overcrowded refugee camp. Standing in line for showers, standing in line for the bathroom, standing in line for the laundry, on and on, day after day. To even get into those lines, you had to first stand in the one with the ration tickets at the end.

Generally speaking, folks behaved themselves in the lines. People played word games, or placed bets on how long it would take to get the to front, or sang songs in their native languages. Most of them had been brought here as slaves or prisoners of war by the Zatvian Cooperative, which had dragged people from all over known space to work the planet below and the asteroid belt outside. Now that the Zats were gone, from the Waga Chun system at least, what was left was a mix of different cultures, different religions, and different customs, all trying to figure out how to get along, until they could find some way back home.

Assuming they had a home to return to, anyway.

Just get me back to space, and that's all I'll be asking. It was why she was standing in this line now, in response to one of the few job postings on the station, and the only one that offered a chance to get back among the stars. She'd spent too much time on the planet below, fighting among its dusty hills.

The posting was for a navigator, which she wasn't by trade, although she had dabbled in it back in the day. The length of the line was discouraging--the interviews weren't even scheduled to begin for another hour--but she had nowhere else to be, and trying had to be better than just giving up, didn't it?

So she was just daydreaming when the sound of gruff, angry voices caught her attention. Having seen more combat than she wanted, Fiona tensed, although outwardly she only cracked an eyelid to get a look at the situation.

The voices were coming from a few meters back in the line. Two men, one large and muscular, the other small and wiry, glared aggressively at someone Fiona couldn't see.

"What did you say?" the man demanded loudly.

The people nearby shifted away nervously, allowing Fiona to see who it was the man had decided to yell at. The woman was small--tiny--with big brown eyes and dark skin, her black hair twisted into short, fat dreadlocks. Even from a distance, Fiona could tell that she was shaking, for all that she was standing up straight and looking the man in the eyes.

"Y-you can't break into line," the small woman said, her voice quivering. Fiona felt a touch of admiration for that--she was obviously scared, but unwilling to be walked on by the likes of the two staring her down.

The large man just laughed. "What are you going to do about it?"

Fiona glanced at the others in line around them. Everyone else was studiously staring at the wall or their feet, or else standing with eyes closed in daydream like she had been only moments before.

Well, hell.

"I'll be back," she told the woman in line behind her. Then she walked towards the scene, wishing that she'd been allowed to bring a gun onto the station, even though she knew why the general ban had been put in place.

"One thing I've never been able to stomach, it's bullies," she said in a false-friendly voice as she approached. "So why don't you be getting to the back of the line where you belong?"

Even those who had been pretending that nothing was happening stared at her. The bigger bully turned his glower on her and cracked his knuckles threateningly, but Fiona had spent too long fighting Zat death squads to be impressed by some two-credit idiot who thought he was tough.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled.

"Fiona MacLachlan. You?"

He blinked, obviously not having expected a straight answer. "None of your business."

"Well, there's the problem, then. I'm making it my business." She stepped into his personal space; she was tall for a woman, and had no problems staring him in the eye.

His partner started to circle around, and Fiona found herself grinning like a lunatic in anticipation. Normally she wasn't one to look for a fight, but after weeks of frustration, of standing in line and keeping a lid on her temper, a little brawl might be just the thing to snap her out of her funk.

"Is there a problem?" asked a cool voice.

The two bullies stepped back quickly, hands up and out to show that they held no weapons. With them out of the way, Fiona found herself confronted by a member of station security. The people of Waga Chun weren't big on uniforms, so he was dressed in a blue shirt that contrasted pleasantly with his copper-brown skin. He was kitted out with a rifle and a wicked-looking knife--and that was what she could see, which wasn't at all likely to be everything he was carrying. One thing they were big on here was technological innovations; she didn't see any communications devices on him, but she didn't doubt for second he was wired, probably all the way to his bones.

"No problem," said the bully quickly.

"Actually, there is," Fiona corrected. "These two were trying to break into line, and intimidating others to do it."

The security person looked at her as if trying to place her--or maybe waiting for someone on the other end of a link to ID her. Then, suddenly, his expression relaxed. "You're the one they call Fire Hair."

Fiona grimaced and automatically tossed back her long, flaming red hair. It had been her code name when she'd been part of the planetary resistance, second in command of a band that had blown up more than a few Zat installations. Her commander had been a fine soldier but not terribly creative when it came to code names.

The memory of his corpse, torn apart by a Zatvian missile, flashed in front of her eyes. For a moment, she could smell the blood, hear the screams and explosions of that last battle.

"That's right," she said, when she thought she could talk again. She didn't think anyone had noticed the lapse, but it was hard to be sure.

"I'm Henry Bird in the Ground. One of my cousins was in your unit." Henry turned to the bullies, and his expression got a whole lot less friendly. "You will go immediately to the rear of the line. I will escort you there myself." Unspoken went the threat that if they didn't go quietly, bad things would happen to them very quickly.

They went, although the larger of the two cast an ugly look back over his shoulder at Fiona. She shrugged it off, still unimpressed, and turned to the woman they had been attempting to frighten. "Are you well, lass?"

The woman flinched slightly under Fiona's scrutiny. A former slave, then, most likely; she'd seen that reaction in too many people her squad had liberated from the camps. "Y-yes. Th-thank you."

"It was nothing. I'm Fiona MacLachlan, as you might have been hearing."

"Alouette Massou."

"A pretty name." And a pretty face, but Fiona had no excuse to stand about talking, when everything in Alouette's body language said she wanted to be left alone. "I'll be seeing you about, then, Alouette."

Alouette nodded, and managed a ghost of a smile.

I wonder if she's always been shy, or if she was different before the Zats were getting their hands on her. But that wasn't the sort of thing to be asking a friend, let alone a stranger. Suppressing a sigh, Fiona went back to her place in line.

*   *   *

Rat wandered onto the bridge of the Exile, holding a cup of coffee. His shoulder-length dreads were still damp from the shower, and he felt as though he weren't quite awake yet, which was perhaps not the best mental state to be in when you were the captain of a pirate ship, docked at a friendly port or no.

Whispers flowed around him, an incessant murmur that never let up. The whispers weren't real, of course--or at least, not truly vocalized--but rather fragments of thoughts and feelings, intermingled with the occasional image, or smell, or remembered touch. All of it melded into a cacophony that could drive a telepath mad if he didn't learn to ignore it.

Or maybe it had driven him mad, which would explain how he had ended up in charge of a ship getting ready to fly off into the unknown, looking for a girl who might be dead, or who might just kill them all if they were lucky enough to find her.

"I put out the notice, captain," Juanita called from her station. She was sitting com for now, mainly because the Exile was short-handed and they didn't have anyone else to put on it. Her bronze skin glowed in the dim light, and she wore her silky black hair pulled up into a bun and tucked under a small, black hat. A colorful shawl hid the rippling muscles of her arms. "Told Command that you were interviewing for navigators in the Yellow Horse Cantina today. They said they'd post it in the system."

"Thanks, Juanita." They'd had a navigator up until a week ago. Nathan Crow Wing was a native of this system, Waga Chun, which had recently taken its freedom back from the Zatvian occupation. Unfortunately, a lot of people had died in that fight, including too many from Nathan's family, and he'd found himself called back to the planet by obligations to those who remained. Rat had been sorry to see him go, and not just because that meant they were now down by two crew members. Finding a competent first mate was also a priority, although he had no idea how to even go about that.

One thing at a time.

He swallowed a gulp of coffee, almost dislodging Jasmine from his shoulder. The little le-murr chattered at him in annoyance, the nails of her good paws gripping the heavy fabric of his long, black coat. Goddess, he didn't want to go on station, he thought as he absently patted Jasmine to soothe her.

He had trouble with crowds most of the time, the low murmur of whispers building to a shattering roar. Strong emotion made the whispers even louder, which meant that on a station filled with frightened, desperate refugees, it would take all of his composure to ignore the thoughts and feelings constantly bombarding him.

At one time, such exposure would have sent him into a seizure within minutes. Now...he didn't know. He'd made progress, but nothing in the universe would ever make him normal again.

The lift door opened behind him. "Ready?" growled a voice.

Rat turned to Marcus. The Exile's gunner was tall and bulky with muscle, his iron-gray hair cut short and his blue eyes hard with impatience.

"I guess," Rat said, finishing off the coffee and dropping the cup into a bag where it would be safely contained until someone could take it to the galley. Even though they were at dock, where it was unlikely any sudden maneuvers would turn an unsecured item into a missile, it never paid to be sloppy.

Marcus gave him a hard look. "You aren't going to do something crazy, are you?"

"I'll try not to," Rat replied dryly. "You don't have to go, you know. Juanita could come."

"It's my daughter that the Zats have--my daughter we're going to look for as soon as we get out of this God-forsaken system. If you hire some idiot who couldn't find his ass with both hands, we'll never get her back."

Juanita snorted. "You worry too much. Need to relax."

*wish I could but who knows what they're doing to Genevieve (fear) it's okay we're doing something Juanita's right, just calm the fuck down, but it's been so long already, might be too late*

"We're doing the best we can," Rat said, trying for patience. He was going to have a hard enough time on station as it was; his own crew adding to the mix wasn't helpful. "Come on if you're coming."

They took the lift up to the ship's spine in silence. Clangs reverberated through the hull; they were taking on whatever supplies they could, not knowing what kind of conditions they were going to encounter on their journey. The Zatvian Cooperative was in the process of collapse, which meant they could find practically anything when they came out of jump, from Zat-controlled stations to free-wheeling pirate dens, to systems in the middle of warfare or rebellion. Best to be prepared for anything.

The lift let them out into the spine of the ship; the sounds of loading became even louder, as automated skimmers attached cargo containers to the length of the spine between the cylinder and the engines. When they hit the boarding tube, Marcus paused and gave Rat a glower. "Just don't do anything crazy. Captain."

Rat shook his head, pushed past, and went through the last airlock and onto the station.

*   *   *

Alouette flinched as a shout of laughter rang out above the general din. Don't panic. No one's yelling at me. No one's looking at me. No one cares about me at all.

It was true, probably, but her nerves twitched all the same, certain that at any moment hands were going to grab her, or strike her. A part of her wanted to leave and run away, but if she was ever going to get off this station, she had to stay put.

The shift before, she'd built the best altar she could with what she had, nothing more than a couple of squares of blue and yellow cloth, trimmed in red, and a bowl of rice along with the square of chocolate that she'd managed to barter for. She'd been ashamed that she had so little to offer Erzulie Dantor, but desperate enough to beg the lwa for the strength to get through the upcoming interview.

Erzulie Dantor can be stabbed seven times with a knife, vomit blood, and keep on going. I can handle talking to someone. I stood up to those two in line this morning, didn't I?

And would have gotten a black eye, if not worse, if that woman--Fiona--hadn't come along.

The line inched forward, and Alouette risked a quick look to judge how much longer she might have to wait. Although the cavernous room still bore the name of the Yellow Horse Cantina, alcohol was just one of the things in sort supply on the station. Now the place had the air of a market, people selling musical instruments cobbled out of discarded metal, or blankets twisted out of rags, or baskets made from discarded tubing. Others crowded the round tables: socializing, eating, gambling, and singing. The smell of frying cornbread made her stomach growl; she hadn't eaten anything since the previous shift.

She'd been dismayed when she had come in and seen the line. Although jobs were in short supply, particularly ones that promised a way off the station, she'd hoped that there weren't many navigators among her fellow ex-prisoners. Either she had been wrong, or everyone who had ever sat a board had showed up for a crack at the opportunity.

Just don't let them hire someone before I even get there. Just let me have a chance.

They hadn't hired Fiona, she didn't think. She'd kept an eye on the red-haired woman who had helped her out as the line moved forward, and had done her best to eavesdrop on her interview, although with the noise the only thing she had caught was that the interviewer who was doing the talking had asked her to wait around because he wanted to speak to her further.

There were two people off the ship doing the hiring. One was big and burly, his tank top showing off his muscular arms. His square face looked like it had been set in a scowl since the moment he was born. He didn't seem to be asking the questions, just listening and glaring.

The other was tall but lean. Dark dreads hung to the shoulders of his long, black coat, and he sported a scraggly goatee on his chin. His skin was golden-brown, and his eyes shaped by epicanthic folds. Full lips and a wide nose completed the picture. There was a vaguely scruffy look about him, as if impressing anyone else with his appearance wasn't high on his list of priorities. Some kind of small primate with white fur sat on his shoulder, her tail looped around his neck and her golden eyes staring curiously at the crowd around her.

There were only two people in front of her now, so she could hear their conversation easily. "Thank you," said the scruffy one, and Alouette guessed he must be the one in charge. "We'll post our decision later."

"When?" asked the man at the head of the line, who was currently seated across from the two interviewers.

"I don't know."

The applicant frowned, got up, and left. The man in front of Alouette hurriedly stepped up to the table and sat down.

Then something odd happened. The interviewer with the dreadlocks gave him a piercing look out of startling amber eyes, then shook his head. "Go away."

The applicant blinked, obviously surprised. "But I--"

"Just leave."

The gray-haired muscle man sat forward and glared. "I'd do what he says."

Without a word, the applicant stood up and left. Wondering at the exchange, Alouette stepped up and took his seat.

The gray-haired man was looking at the other one. "How are you holding up?"

"I'll manage." Up close, Alouette could see fine lines of pain around his eyes, and the corners of his mouth were tight. Then he seemed to shake himself, and gave her a tired smile. "Hello. I'm Rat, captain of the Exile, and this is Marcus, our gunner."

Rat? "A-Alouette Massou." Amber eyes watched her intently, and she swallowed against a sudden ball of nerves. Strength. Have courage. Courage not just to get through this interview, but if she got the job, to walk onto a strange ship with a bunch of people she didn't know, trusting that they weren't going to rape or kill her, or turn her back into a captive.

"It's good to meet you, Alouette," said Rat. His voice was gentle, pitched to comfort, as if he knew that she was worried. "This is Jasmine. Would you like to pet her?"

To her surprise, he passed the little primate to her. She took the pet automatically; the feel of warm fur was comforting, somehow, and she found herself relaxing as she stroked it. One of its tiny hands was deformed, curled into a tight ball, and she wondered if it was a birth defect or an old injury.

"So, you're a navigator?" Rat prompted.

"Yes. I worked a passenger ship." A flash of red hair distracted Alouette momentarily, and she saw Fiona sit down at the table next to them, her back turned in their direction. Apparently she'd decided to wait around like Rat had requested. "Um, I did that for two years, but there was no excitement in it, just running the same route all the time." It seemed mad, now, that she had found such security boring. "I left and took a job with one of the megafreighters. I was one of four navigators assigned to the ship. That was just before..."

She trailed off, her throat closing, as if someone strangled her. That was before we made the mistake of putting into an occupied station. Before the Zats boarded and took us captive. Before...

"Can you do some calculations for us?" Rat asked, breaking into her thoughts. He pushed a tablet across the table to her, and she took it with shaking hands.

The calculations settled her thoughts, the straightforwardness of physics letting her focus on something outside herself. When she was done, she felt much calmer, and even managed to smile when she handed the tablet back to him.

Rat glanced at her answers and returned her smile. "I don't know what it all means, myself," he admitted. "I'm just a fighter pilot. But our former navigator left this with us, so that we could make sure his replacement knew what she was doing." He hesitated, dropping his gaze oddly. "Do you have any questions?"

Alouette bit her lip, not certain if she should say anything or not. It sounds like they might offer me the job. I don't want to mess this up.

But I don't want to go in blindly, either. That would be stupid. What if they're not looking for a good navigator, just one small enough to overpower easily?

She swallowed against the fear that thought invoked. "W-why did you send the man before me away without even asking a question?"

Rat sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "Oh. Yes. He wasn't a navigator--just someone hoping to bluff his way through."

"Idiot," Marcus muttered.

Alouette frowned. "You knew him, then?"

"No."

"Then how did you find out?"

The uneasy look on Rat's face did nothing to reassure her. "That's a bit hard to explain. You see, I'm..."

His words trailed away abruptly. Then, with a sharp oath, he spun around, knocking his chair over and grabbing for the wrist of a man who had been passing behind him.

A crude, homemade knife flashed as Rat forced the man's hand up. Startled, Alouette realized three things: that the man was the same who had tried to break in line in front of her earlier, that he had been aiming the knife at Fiona's back...and that he had been behind Rat when he pulled the knife.

Then how did Rat know what he was doing?

Jasmine tensed in Alouette's arms, her fur bristling. At the outcry, Fiona shot up out of her chair, turning and kicking the man with the knife. Rat let out a yell of pain, and dropped along with the knife-wielder, letting go of the other man's wrist as he did so.

What's going on here? She didn't touch Rat. So why did he fall down too?

A woman let out of yell of fury and charged towards Fiona. Marcus leapt up and swept his chair out in one hand, smashing her in the face and knocking her into the next table over.

It was like setting a match to dry grass. Most of those in the cantina had been slaves or prisoners. Months--sometimes years--of fear and powerlessness, followed by the frustrations of the refugee life, had turned the station into a simmering cauldron.

And now the lid's off.

Within seconds, the brawl spread. Factions that had formed amidst the refugees came to their feet, screaming insults and threats at one another. Chairs and tables became weapons, and someone flung a pot of scalding grits, the smell of burning corn mingling with the sticky scent of blood.

"Damn it!" shouted Marcus. He punched a man in the face, then shoved a knot of struggling fighters away. Reaching down, he grabbed Rat's coat, and hauled him to his feet. The captain's golden skin had taken on a yellowish hue.

Fiona reached around the table and grabbed Alouette's wrist, hauling her closer, so that she was between the taller woman and Marcus. Someone nearby screamed, and the warmth of blood spattered across Alouette's face, making her jerk. Instinctively, she hugged Jasmine closer, hoping to at least get out of this alive.

"Where the hell is station security?" Fiona yelled over the din.

"I don't know, but if nothing is done soon, this is going to spread," Rat said grimly. His face was drawn, haggard, and Alouette realized that he was letting Marcus do the fighting, despite his initial action. "The whole station will end up in a riot."

"Not much we can do about it," Marcus said, ducking as a chair flew by his head.

"Yes, there is. Get them out of here."

Marcus swore and grabbed Alouette's arm. "You heard the man. Move it."

"But--" Fiona started.

"I really suggest you shut up and do what he says," Marcus snarled. A moment later, he was shoving his way through the crowd, knocking aside anyone in his way. Alouette followed on his heels, not knowing what was going on but more than happy to get away from the center of the trouble. The floor under her boots was slick with blood, spilled food, and drink. Ominously, the scent of smoke touched the air, and she felt her heart lurch with a spacer's terror of clogged filters and slow suffocation. So when a wiry man made a grab for her, she kicked him hard, without even thinking about it; he fell back, clutching his knee, and Fiona laughed, a high, wild sound.

Somehow, they made it to the edge of the room. Everyone not involved in the fight was struggling to escape past them, shoving towards the exits, where a blockage had formed as security tried to get in.

"We'll just have to hope we're far enough away," Marcus muttered, pulling Alouette against the wall and putting his body between her and the other combatants. "God damn it, why couldn't he just mind his own fucking business?"

Alouette swallowed. "What's the captain doing? Why didn't he come with us?"

"Because he's a freak. Just watch."

Confused, Alouette tried to peer past him. In the midst of the chaos, she thought she caught a glimpse of a long black coat and dreads, a man turning slowly, arms outspread, leaving himself dangerously unprotected...

Suddenly, there was silence.

Not total silence, but the screams and shouts and howls of rage from the center of the riot simply...stopped all at once, leaving those on the edges suddenly ringing hollowly.

Then there came the soft thump of collapsing bodies, one after the other, people falling as though a shockwave moved outward from some unknown epicenter. Men and women who moments before had been trying to kill each other now lay together in unconscious heaps. Blood leaked from their nostrils, from the corners of their eyes.

For an instant, Alouette thought that station security must have deployed some strange crowd-control weapon. Then she saw the lone figure still standing in the middle of the cantina. Rat's head was bowed, his fists clenched. Blood dripped from a cut on one cheek, but otherwise he was unharmed. Unaffected.

Because, somehow, he was the cause.

"Bloody hell," murmured Fiona, pressing back against the wall, her eyes wide. "What is he?"

"A telepath," Marcus said shortly. "Now come on. Let's get out of here before security decides to stuff us all in the brig."