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And I was free.

If I continued asking for him, they would think me

mad. They would continue to drug me. They'd send me to counseling. They'd watch my every move. My only hope was to give them what they wanted.

I took a deep breath to steady myself. And I opened my eyes.

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One day to convince them I was fine. I said all the things I knew they'd want me to say: it had been so dark. I'd been lost. I couldn't see. I had no idea how much time had passed. It had been horrifying. I'd been so scared.

It was a poorly written script in melodramatic play, but my audience was small, and they bought it. They practically gave me a standing fucking ovation.

One more day to convince them I could leave the

medical bay. The URS Santiago was gigantic. I was given a plush cabin and told to rest as much as I needed.

A third day to convince them I wanted to return to

duty, because that was the only way I'd have the access I needed. I was denied full clearance and the right to carry my weapon until a psychological evaluation could be done, but they gave me new uniforms as if they were the greatest gift they could bestow. I was cleared for light duty.

That was all I needed.

At first, having my sight back had been nearly as

disconcerting as losing it had been. The lights seemed too bright, the colors too garish. I'd grown used to it again quickly, but my sense of hearing still felt heightened. There was a new layer to my reality I hadn't known before. I began to realize how often what I saw didn't match what I

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heard—people smiled as they lied, and their laughs hid their unease. The entire world felt like a lie. Putting my uniform back on felt like the biggest lie of all. It was a skin that no longer fit. It was tight, and starched. Somehow it was too small in the waist, too short through the crotch, too stiff across the shoulders. I could barely breathe.

My 'freedom' felt like hell.

It had been only twenty days since the pirates had

taken us captive. It felt like a lifetime ago. My old self felt light-years away, dead and buried like a long-lost relative. I wore his skin now. I wore his disguise. But he was not me.

I had to see Valero.

The Santiago wasn't just a ship. It was a small city in a can. It housed a couple hundred Regency militia, from privates to colonels. Along with them came their families, and enough civilians to keep them all fat and happy. There were tutors, tailors, chefs, and artists. There were hairdressers, tennis instructors, and high-class whores.

There was a promenade with stores and several pubs. There were multiple ship docks, both military and civilian. There was even a swimming pool, lit by bulbs that mimicked sunlight. You could get an honest-to-gods tan, if you hung out long enough.

It was far too big of a ship for them to watch me too closely.

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It took very little work to find where the pirates

were incarcerated. I also learned, to my very great relief, that nobody had been killed. I wore my full-dress uniform.

I walked with the stiff, deliberate purpose of the Regency militia. Inside my chest, my heart pounded a frantic beat. I was terrified somebody would stop me and demand an

explanation, but none did. Only the desk guard at the cell bay questioned me.

"Are you sure you want to see them, Captain

Kelley?"

"Some of my own men are in there," I said.

"The two defectors, you mean?" he asked.

No.
"Yes."

He looked properly sympathetic. "They'll be

executed with the others," he said.

Executed. After a farce of a trial, no doubt, which was set to take place in three days' time. "I want to let them know that I understand," I said, and when I saw the shocked look on his face, I forced myself to smile. "It might bring them some peace, knowing their captain has forgiven them."

He nodded, frowning. "You're a good man, sir."

It was enough to make me sick. I hoped he couldn't

see the disgust on my face.

"Would you like me to escort you in, sir?"

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That was the other thing I'd been afraid of—that

they wouldn't let me in alone.

"No, Corporal. Don't trouble yourself."

It was that easy. He buzzed me through the door,

and I went in.

* * * *

I stopped short in the doorway, my heart

hammering in my chest. I hadn't thought ahead to this moment.

A long, poorly lit aisle stretched out in front of me.

There were cells on both sides, and each one of the cells was full of men I'd never seen. Men I did not know.

Heavily made-up eyes, dyed and spiked hair, silk blouses and tall leather boots—these were the men I'd thrown my lot in with. They all stared at me with what I imagined was cruel hostility.

I suddenly wanted to flee. Despite everything I'd

done to get to this point, I was afraid to enter the room. I was afraid of them. One of these men was Valero. How would I even know which one was him?

I closed my eyes, and I called up Valero: he was a

rough image in my mind. I didn't know his face, but I knew his voice, and I knew his touch. I knew I wanted to be with

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him, wherever he was.

These men are your friends now,
I reminded myself.

They're your allies.
One of these men was Pierce. One was Yima. I'd dined with a few of them. I'd laughed with them.

I'd planned to spend my future with them. And whether I knew who they were or not, there was a good bet most of them knew who I was. It disturbed me, but it gave me strength, as well.

I opened my eyes. And I made myself enter.

They all watched me. Some I could rule out based

on height, or hair color, but there were an alarming number of men who could have been him. I forced myself to make eye contact. Most of them looked at me with boredom or suspicion. Some seemed to recognize me, but nobody said anything. My heart raced as I walked slowly down the aisle between the cells.

At the fourth cell on my left, one of them said,

"Tristan." I turned to look at him, my heart in my throat, but the man who stood looking at me was too tall. His hair was bright red. There were lightning bolts tattooed on the sides of his head. "Captain's been worried about you," he said.

"Are you Pierce?" I asked.

He smiled. "Guess they fixed your eyes."

I stepped closer so I could lower my voice. "Where

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is he?"

He pointed across the hall and down two cells. Two

men stood staring back at me. Both fit the mental image I had of him to some degree, but neither of them looked particularly pleased to see me.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I shoved my

hands into my pockets so nobody could see how they

shook. I made myself walk toward the cell.

One of the men smiled, revealing three gold teeth.

The other didn't. Both of them backed away from the front of the cell, and I realized there were two other men in the cell. They were sitting on a bench against the back wall, their heads tucked together as they talked.

Gold Tooth nudged the smaller of the two with his

boot, and when the man looked up at him, Gold Tooth nodded in my direction. The man looked over at me.

"Tristan?"

His voice was so familiar. He stood up and came to

the bars, holding his hand out to me, clearly relieved to see me. I stood rooted in my spot, staring at him, unable to move.

Some of him was right: his height, the dark, ratted mohawk of his hair, his broad shoulders. But other pieces were completely wrong: his skin was darker than I'd imagined. He appeared to be older than me by seven or

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eight years—why had I never stopped to think about his age? His shirt was open to his navel, revealing a huge tattoo of a dragon. Its head covered half of his chest with green and purple shimmering ink. Its long, snake-like body disappeared over his right shoulder. One of its wings climbed the side of his neck, passing behind his ear, into his hair.

"Tristan?" he said again. I could hear the unease in his voice. I closed my eyes. I put my hand in his, and I let him pull me to the bars. His hand cupped the back of my head, and he put his forehead against mine.

I was shaking. There was a lump in my throat. This

wasn't the way I'd wanted this to go. I'd wanted him to fit neatly into the image I'd built in my mind. "Talk to me," I said, my voice hoarse with tears. "I need to know it's you."

"Do you think I would lie?" he asked, and although he seemed to be partly joking, I could hear the pain in his voice as well.

What was I supposed to say? Of course I didn't

think he was lying, but there was some childlike part of my brain insisting this could not possibly be him. All I could do was shake my head. I clutched his hand tighter.

"Please."

It took him a second, but then he let go of my hand.

He put his arm around my waist. His other hand was still

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on the back of my head, and he used his grip on my hair to turn my head so my ear was against his lips.

"What underwear are you wearing?" he asked. His hand slid down past my waist to grip my ass. "Not the right ones, I can tell." No. Even if I'd had any of my lingerie, I wouldn't have dared wear it. "When I get out of here, I'm going to steal every inch of black lace in the quadrant. I'll never let you wear anything else again." His tone wasn't suggestive. It was more teasing than anything, somehow acknowledging the absurdity of having this conversation in such a horrible place, but it helped. His voice and his touch felt like home. They soothed me. "I wish you were in here with me," he said, still whispering in my ear. "I'd strip you bare and lick every inch of you. I'd get down on my knees and suck you off in front of all these men, just so they could see how gorgeous you look when you come." I couldn't help but smile, and he laughed softly in my ear. "I really hate these bars right now."

"So do I."

I turned toward him, my eyes still closed, and he

kissed me. It was a brief kiss, but I knew the feel of his lips.

I knew his taste.

I opened my eyes. On the other side of the bars, his looked back at me. They were hazel, and heavily lined with black. He looked worried.

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I looked at the whole of him again, letting the

pieces fall into place—the scar on his neck, which I knew by touch, and the tattoo on the other side, which I hadn't anticipated. The hair that was as I'd known it would be, and yet still so very unexpected. I put my hand on his shoulder.

I caressed his neck, letting my fingers play over his scar.

"All that time I spent getting ready when you

couldn't see me, and now you can, it has to be like this," he said, and somehow, I
heard
the smile in his voice before I saw it on his face.

This was Valero.
My
Valero. I knew him. And my resolve to be with him was absolutely unwavering.

"I missed you," I said, and the smile on his face grew.

"I've been worried," he said. "After what I did, and then you didn't come…"

"They had me in sick bay. They thought I'd…"

They thought I'd lost my mind, and maybe I had. "They fixed my eyes."

"I'm glad," he said. His smile faded. "Tell me you forgive me for what I did."

It took me a moment to even realize what he meant,

but then I remembered him hitting me and shoving me into his closet. "Of course I forgive you," I said. If he hadn't done it, I'd be locked in the cell with him. In some ways, I

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would have preferred that. And yet if I'd been locked up too, I wouldn't have been able to get him out.

I knew what I had to do.

"Which one's the captain?" I asked, and when his eyebrows went down in confusion, I laughed. "The
real
captain."

* * * *

Captain Yima turned out to be the fourth man in the cell—the one Valero had been talking to on the bench at the back of the cell. He was much as I had pictured him: huge and barrel-chested. He looked to be about fifty years old. He had a thick black beard and a completely bald head tattooed with red and gold flames. The tattoo ink was bright and metallic, and the flames seemed to flicker in the light when he turned his head.

"I know the kidnapping was Rikard's idea," I told him. "But I need to know if you have any proof."

"I have the messages," he said, "but what good will it do?"

"Are they on the ship servers?"

He laughed. "How stupid do I look, kid?"

"Where are they? And would they prove he was in on it?"

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He stopped smiling. He squinted his eyes at me as if trying to determine how seriously to take me. "They're on a non-Regency server under an anonymous account," he said.

"Rikard's messages say who he is, but they were sent from a public computer, so they couldn't be traced to him. All he has to do is say somebody set him up."