The woman—Merry, the courier recalls—turns to face them as they approach the room.

“Enter,” she commands.

Duke leans against the aquarium glass, which stretches along the entire wall opposite the vast, floor-to-ceiling window where Merry stands, and gestures the courier forward with a sweep of his arm. The courier swallows, hesitating for a moment before making his way tentatively across the room.

This is it.

He’s unable to keep the tremble from his hands, shoving them once again into his pockets and steeling his nerves. Whatever she needs from him, he will give—and whatever consequence she has in store for him, he will accept.

Merry is holding a bar of his decoy gold, tapping it with a graceful finger.

“A clever ruse, this mage gold.” Her voice is rich and musical, with a percussive cadence. “I imagine it must fool whatever scavengers you typically encounter. Though, as you surmised . . .” she places the gold bar on the table before turning back to him, “we are not run-of-the-mill pirates.”

The courier doesn’t answer. He can’t even meet her eyes. She continues, unbothered.

“I am going to ask you some questions.” Her tone becomes low and stern. “You are going to answer them. Honestly. And without the time-wasting nonsense from before.”

“Aye,” he croaks, finding his voice, along with the courage to meet her gaze. “You’ll have no more trouble from me.”

“Good,” she says, folding her hands behind her back before continuing. “Where were you taking those children?”

“An outpost in the Thorne system. On an asteroid. My nav system has the coordinates—I can give ye the access instructions.”

“Do so.”

Merry takes a glass data pad from the tree stump table and hands it to him, watching as he enters the access codes for the 5UN-FL0R, along with a series of instructions for navigating its computer systems.

“That should do it,” he says after a few minutes, passing the data pad back to her.

“Thank you.”

“Please,” the courier implores, too far gone to feel shame at the desperation in his tone. “I know you’re the one asking the questions. But those wee kids—are they—?”

Merry’s eyes narrow. Tide’s mercy. They are not five minutes into an interrogation, and he is already questioning her?

He drops his gaze to the floor. “Please, I—I have to know.”

Irritation yields to sympathy as the crack in his voice betrays the pain behind the question. The man standing before her looks miserable—puffy-eyed and disheveled, a bruise from his skirmish with Blues Scale blossoming across his cheek. He’s been used as a pawn, as much a victim as his slumbering passengers, and he is suffering for his part in it all.

Perhaps she is too soft . . . but she sees little reason to keep him in the dark.

“They are merely in stasis,” she explains, gently. “We will wake them once we are in a safer location.”

The courier shuffles uncomfortably, turning toward the window to gaze out at the stars. His ship is there, hanging among them.

“That was my fifth trip.”

“Yes. I know. You were difficult to catch.”

“Do ye think—” he glances toward her, desperation in his eyes. “Was every shipment—?”

The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air.

“According to my sources, yes.”

His face crumples into something wretched as he turns from her to lean against the window, forehead grazing the glass.

“Oh, Scrios damn me.”

“You truly had no idea what you were carrying, did you?” Merry asks him, softly.

“If I’d ‘a known, I’d ‘a torn that damned rock apart.” His voice roughens, and Merry recalls the ease with which he had torn open the metal wall of his own ship. That wasn’t an empty threat.

“Then help me,” she says, “and perhaps together, we can make that happen.”

“Whatever ye need.”

“Thank you.” She means it, glad to be spared the bother of interrogating an unwilling captive. “What I need from you now are answers. How did you come to work for the Thuliv Authority?”

“They reached out to me. Didn’t tell me anything much. All I knew was they were payin’ me handsomely to ferry cargo to a classified location. Some sort of military research lab, I think. I’d a perfect delivery record, ‘till now. My ship is hard to track, and ye saw the secret cargo hold. It fools most would-be thieves.”

“Did anyone recommend you?”

“I doubt it,” he says with a resigned shrug. “I’m not from Thuliv. Don’t think I know anyone who is. I’m not close with many people. Outlive enough o’ your friends, and ye start to just . . .” he trails off, fidgeting with the siphon on his wrist. “I keep to myself. Don’t have any enemies to speak of, either,” he adds, a dry note in his voice. “I’m a courier. It’s not exactly a cutthroat industry.”

“Perhaps the wrong pirates were stung by your mage gold trick,” says Merry, with a wry smile.

“Aye, maybe. Don’t know how they’d have my contact details, though. I don’t give them a business card. And I can’t see why pirates would help me find paid work.”

He sighs, the momentary burst of wit deserting him.

“I wish I had more to give ye,” he says. “I was lookin’ for work, and word gets around. Like as not they just found me online or by reputation and reached out.”

“Did they tell you anything else which might be insightful?”

“Not really. By the time I got uneasy ‘bout what I might be bringing’ em, I was too far in to back out.”

“You were uneasy?”

The courier scoffs. “I was ferryin’ mystery cargo to a secret military lab. Gods only know what they research in a place like that.” His jaw clenches. “I was an idiot—should’ve never agreed—” He turns away. “I should’ve known better.”

“Yes,” she said gently, “you should have.”

They stand in silence for a moment, watching the stars.

“What do they do with those kids?”

Merry’s breath catches.

“I would spare you that knowledge,” she whispers. “That will be all.”

Duke’s voice sails across the room from over by the door. “Right then. Follow me.”

The courier goes obediently, stumbling a little over Boi, who is circling around his feet as he walks. He pauses at the doorway, looking back toward Merry.

“Ma’am?” He still looks broken, and his voice is still raw, but there is a glint of resolve in his eyes, “If there’s any other way I can help, I’m willin’. Please ask.”

Merry nods.

“I shall.”

The ride back down the elevator is silent, the courier lost in his thoughts as he admires the aquatic scenery, the dog sitting close beside him. The light fades to a dark blue as they reach the brig and he follows Duke mutely, stepping back into his cell without complaint. Duke pauses for a moment, hand hovering over the forcefield panel.

“Hey, Bro?”

The courier looks at him through a shadow of fatigue and sorrow.

“I’ll make sure they pull through,” Duke says with a reassuring smile. “Those kids. You got some sleep, yeah?”

The courier nods.

“Thank ye.”

Duke presses his hand to the panel and the forcefield shimmers back to life. The courier sighs, staring at the dancing lines of energy and fighting down a sense of dread at being alone with his thoughts once more. His captor is halfway along the hallway when he hears something panting by his left hip. He looks down, startled. The shape-shifting dog is standing next to him—inside the cell—staring up at his face. As their eyes meet, the dog wags his little stump of a tail and sits at his feet.

“Hey!” the courier yells. “Ye forgot your dog!”

There is no reply.

The courier looks at his new cellmate with slight concern. He isn't even sure if it is a dog. He’s no stranger to magical creatures—his home planet is teeming with them—but a shape-shifting dog is an absurdity he would have scoffed at a few hours ago. For all he knows, it might turn into a crocodile. And if it is a dog, being locked up in a cell will hardly be much fun for the furry fellow.

The dog, in contrast, seems entirely relaxed, panting placidly. He leans his body against the courier’s hip, places a heavy paw on his foot, and lets out a little whine, looking up through dark, soulful eyes, brimming with sweetness.

He hasn’t been forgotten, the courier realises with a surge of gratitude. He’s here on purpose.

The courier lets out a shaking breath, the events of the day crashing over him in a wave, tugging him into the undertow. He lets it take him, leaning back against the wall for a moment before sliding down to sit upon the floor. The dog nuzzles his cheek with a whine and the courier strokes him, wraps his arms around him, then clings to him like a lifebuoy, burying his head into his soft neck and breathing until all the world and all dark thoughts are reduced to the musky smell of warm fur. 

The dog groans, resting his muzzle upon the courier’s shoulder with a soft, satisfied huff.

“. . . Thank ye, laddie.”