Page 8 of Alien Burn

“You look pleased to be here,” Dhomhes said.

“I've spoken to Patrie.”

“Ah. And she wished you well?”

“She hopes I fall into a shaft.”

“Perhaps avoid the edge.”

Stron gave him a flat look. Dhomhes smiled and went to find the security commander.

The man had the inspection results waiting. Dhomhes checked the names against the previous night's duty roster, then asked to see the maintenance access points. The commander accompanied him, patiently at first and less patiently by the second circuit.

At the north hatch, Dhomhes stopped.

Fresh scrapes marked the lock housing.

“This was opened?”

“During the inspection.”

The commander showed him the access record. Correct time. Correct crew. Dhomhes looked through the open hatch at the service passage beneath, where an engineer was still gathering tools.

“And the supports?”

“All checked, Gol-Vett.”

He would have liked to crawl through and check them himself. It would have taken hours, and he knew enough about these systems to recognize a problem, not enough to certify one safe.

The engineer climbed out, saluted, and secured the hatch.

Dhomhes went back to Stron.

“Satisfied?” his friend asked.

“Rarely.”

“You should try it.”

Fiviel joined them with a quiet grinding from his mechanical knee. He adjusted his robes, scowled at the fabric, and looked toward the ship's expected approach.

“How long?”

“Before the ship, or before you tear those off?” Dhomhes asked.

“I can do both at once.”

They had spent enough mornings beating each other around a training floor that ceremonial clothes felt faintly ridiculous. Dhomhes knew how Fiviel favored his leg after a hard bout, which shoulder Stron dropped before a feint. Khalzin hoped to leave with a mate. Dhomhes would be content to get through the ceremony without a diplomatic incident.

Fiviel's mouth twitched. “Are you going to talk like this all day?”

“Only if I'm encouraged.”

“No one encourages you.”

“And yet I thrive.”

Stron made a sound of disgust that was spoiled by his smile.