"Lan Sung is going to be one to watch out for. His ideas are getting getting quite a lot of attention." The interviewer, some local Brenn had never heard of, said in the background.

"He's certainly not the first one to suggest recreating the First Ones' society," the interviewee responded, her tone flippant. "Why should we listen to him, a man who has only ever lead archaeological expeditions? Some of the greatest political and military leaders of the last three centuries have tried and failed to unite the Known Galaxies."

"Yes, but how many of them had access to an actual Capitol Ship of the First Ones?"

"Claims to have access to." The correction held a note of disdain.

Brenn sighed. The interviewee sounded posh and stuck up and the interviewer's voice stood on the wrong side of the pleasant to annoying line. Perhaps it was time to turn off the stream. She wasn't in the mood to listen to strangers shiteing on about something they knew nothing about.

Then again, what was she in the mood for? If she turned it off it'd just be her, the memories, and the rhythmic pounding in her head courtesy of one Alexander Cornelius; may the arsehole trip over his own feet and roll down a hill of poison ivy into a nest of Linean lava hornets.

If only there were a way to switch off her internal stream, or even pause the playback. Maybe a machine she could cobble together from wire and batteries to muffle everything until it was nothing more than white noise, like the whisper of the Hestia's life support systems.

"Let's face it," the interviewee continued, "no one knows anything about his ship beyond what he says. He only lets a handful of people near it, and why? The chances of him finding a preserved First Ones vessel and having enough First One DNA to even turn it on are next to none..."

"Think of everything we could learn about the origins of humans and the Cousins? Why are we practically identical? What was their purpose in—"

Enough of that. Rora would have loved this, her eyes glued to the screen for a glimpse of the mystery ship. She'd have known more than these louts, too.

"Hestia, off, please." The stream cut off mid-sentence.

Jesus her head hurt. It wasn't the first time she'd been tossed about and roughed up, but by some mercy she'd forgotten the special hell of a concussion. The doctor had ordered rest and said she'd feel lot better if she got enough sleep. She really should lay back down. Maybe actually take the sedative he'd given her this time so she could stay asleep. If Rora were here—

But Rora wasn't here. That was the whole fucking problem.

Her gaze fell on the worn and oft patched up fiddle case on the table. She'd placed it there earlier and proceeded to look at everything but. It was old and burnished to shining in some places while cracked in others. She ran her fingers along the edges and popped the latches with both hands.

Suddenly she was back in her cousin's pub in the Galway Old City, watching a pair of nimble hands pull out the treasure within. Any moment now, Rora would turn and smile as brightly as the sun...

Brenn blinked the present back into focus, but it was too late. A soft mass had formed in the back of her throat and the corners of her eyes itched. The scents of citrus and wood, of home, rose from the case and her heart squeezed. The first few tears fell. How many tears had she cried in the last three-and-a-half years? How many more would fall?

Even in the dim lighting, Rora's fiddle shone. Like the case, it was old, carved by a luthier who'd known a very different Earth. When its first master had put bow to string, Earth had been a free, peaceful, and prosperous world. The center of humanity's intergalactic success.

Despite its age, it was in near perfect condition, the varnish still smooth, the wood still supple. Even the golden filigree along the edge, painted nearly three-hundred years before with a delicate hand, remained intact. It'd been Rora's most valuable possession; a family heirloom given to her when her father died. She'd lavished it with the nearly the same tenderness and love she'd reserved for the laboring mams and babes she'd nursed.

With care, Brenn lifted the instrument from its velvet bed and another memory rolled over her. She was on Earth again, the sun warming her face, the flavor of sea salted air on her tongue. Galway had graced them with one of those rare sunny days where the sand and sea sparkled like gemstones, filled with so much magic she wouldn't have been surprised if they'd wandered into the fairy lands.

The breeze carried the notes of a jaunty reel and Brenn looked up from the table she'd been setting up. Rora stood on a dance floor of old boards with the sun in her hair, fiddle tucked beneath her chin, and feet keeping time to the beat. Cream colored skirts twisted around her ankles.

"Someone's told her others will be providing the entertainment for your wedding night? She gets to relax." Aaron asked, coming up behind Brenn. She glanced over her shoulder to catch a proud smile on her cousin's face, and didn't he deserve to be proud after all she'd put him through since he took her in at twelve?

Brenn laughed. "I've told her no such thing and you'll not either. This is her way of relaxing."

"At least I can force you to stop working. Away with you. Go dance with your fiancée or get some sun. Stop being responsible for everything for once in your life. I promise there'll be a party after your vows without your direct supervision."

The sound of movement behind Tara's door shattered the memory. The tightness in her chest became an almost unbearable ache. Still, she continued on. From the case she picked up a soft white cloth and even as the first sob escaped she began to wipe away invisible dust and grime as she did every year on their wedding anniversary.

As the practiced motions soothed and she found her breath again, she listened to Tara shuffle around in her cabin. The Hestia was small and if she wanted privacy, she needed to go into her own cabin or all the way down to the cargo hold where she couldn't be overheard. It'd never bothered her before, though. There'd been less privacy on the deep sea fishing boats she worked on back home.

Yet, Tara was up early and would be out for her coffee soon. She probably hadn't anticipated it coming with a side of bawling. Brenn didn't move. Instead she went still with the white cloth bunched up in her fist, soaking up the tears that rolled off the back of her hand. It'd be torture to be alone.

No one ever talked about grief back home. It was a constant, like the rains and the mud, or the crunch of Aesir boots and the shouts of the Guard. There was no time to ponder on the things inside that ripped human hearts to shreds. Life needed to be lived. Everyone counted on everyone else to do as much as they were able. You either got on or you died.

It'd left her unprepared for how grief lurked in the shadows. How birthdays and anniversaries became doleful reminders of things that would never be—of thousands of possible futures stolen. Seven pops from an Aesir gun. That's what it had taken to shatter her world.

They'd have been married five years today.

Fuck the past and the memories that haunted her. Fuck this god damned headache and every Aesir bastard on Earth. Fuck them all.

Her shoulders shook and another sob squeezed her chest. The fiddle clattered to the table as Tara's door whooshed opened, spilling bright light into the galley. It hurt Brenn's eyes, so she narrowed them against it. Tara stood outlined in her doorway, a colorful scarf wrapped around her curls, the pattern blending together like water poured over ink through Brenn's tears. At first, her lips shifted upward, then halted halfway and sank into a deep frown. A knot formed above her brow.

Brenn looked away and closed her eyes. Tara didn't deserve this first thing in the morning. After three-and-a-half years she should be able to keep it together. How was it everyone else could move on while she remained chained to the past, searching for Rora around every corner? Why did the thought of giving into the loneliness and answering the flirtatious smiles of other women turn her stomach? Why couldn't she even take off her wedding ring?

Behind her closed eyes Rora appeared, shrouded in darkness. The ghosts of gunshots rang out. Her body jerked once and then twice before her knees buckled. She was so far away. Too far. A high voltage fence stood between them. Five more bullets. Aaron and his husband Dermot's strong arms held Brenn back, their bodies muffling her cries, making it impossible to breathe. Oh God, she couldn't breathe—

Brenn shook her head. Her brain sloshed against her skull sending a sharp pain from temple to temple. The room swayed she grew seasick, but she welcomed it. It grounded her in this place. No Aesir Guard here, light years from Earth. Light years from home.

Tara set a glass of water in front of her. She hadn't realized her friend had moved from the doorway. She picked it up and drank and the cool water ran over her tongue and slid down her dry throat.

Across the table, Tara took a seat, watchful and patient.

"It's hard for you this time of year," she said when Brenn remained silent, the glass in one hand, the fabric in the other.

No shit.

Were it anyone else, she might have said it aloud. Too many people used words as useless filler to cover up their own discomfort. Not Tara. This was a low pressure invitation to open up if she wanted to.

Did she? What good did it do to remind her friend of the life she'd rescued Brenn from and the millions of others left behind? Why force Tara to revisit the horrors her mother's people wrought daily on human beings. Tara already hated the Aesir half of herself. Why give her more fuel?

Yet when Brenn blinked, the replay flashed again as it had been for over a day now. It'd been so cold that night. The kind of cold that smelled like steel. The mists had been a chiffon drape hanging in the air and softening the lights. They'd already wormed their way under her leather coat and soaked into her hair and it wouldn't have surprised her if the mists had shifted into snow or freezing rain before the night was through.

Rora had told her to send only Aaron and Dermot. But it'd been two weeks since the last time they'd seen each other. Tense, ugly, and awful weeks they were, too. Brenn had needed to look into her eyes again. A voice wasn't enough. Who knew, at the time, when the Aesir were going to open the District up so those trapped on the outside could come back home?

"Brenn?" Tara kept her voice soft. "Stay here with me."

Right. On the Hestia.

Brenn pressed her lips together and scrunched up her face, then let out her breath in a huff. Thump, thump, went the drummer in her skull to the beat of her heart. Thump, thump. Steady like waves. Like sunrise. Like pistons on an engine and the gears that pulled fish-laden nets from the sea.

Steady like life on this ship. Tara and Doctor Youssef, who'd crewed with Tara at the time, had taken a pile of broken pieces off Earth and put them back into the shape of a woman. They'd filled in the cracks as best they could and given her another life. A happy one, most days. She looked up from her hands and met Tara's concerned gaze. Sometimes the Universe stressed those repairs near to breaking. Her internal pressure gage read too high, but releasing that pressure would burn.

"I had a nightmare the other night ab--" her voice cracked. She licked her lips then let go of the glass and took the cloth in both hands, twisting it. Her gaze dropped from Tara to Rora's fiddle, abandoned between them. Rora had asked her to keep it safe until she returned. "I dreamed about the night Rora was murdered."

The lights reflected off her wedding ring as she fussed with the cloth.

"I haven't had nightmares like it in over a year. I usually have the same beautiful dream on our anniversary. We're on the beach where we married, stretched out on the sand, and she asks me to tell her about my life out here now that I'm free."

She reached for the fiddle and the cloth fell to her lap. A small smile flitted across her lips. She looked up to see Tara watching, and then back down. Her fingertips slid easily over the smooth wood. Of course she'd kept it safe. How often had she thought of the instrument as an extension of Rora? Something as important as an arm or a leg.

Or a soul.

"We talked about freedom all the time, though we knew we'd likely never leave Earth."

Rora could've left to live with her mother's people, and might have at some point after Brenn died. Supposedly, the Cousin half of her didn't just come with telepathy, but quite an extended lifespan. Yet, even with everything they'd gone through under Aesir rule, Brenn had never seen anything frighten her wife more than the thought of trading her cage on Earth for a life on that distant world. If only Brenn had taken more interest and asked why. Too late now.

"Any amount of freedom was important. It's why we had an uprising at all—we were starving and dying in huge numbers across the entire planet. Someone had to do something."

When she'd stood before Rora and told her she'd keep her fiddle tucked away, she'd managed to keep a small amount of confidence in her voice. Still, Rora had chewed her bottom lip and rolled back and forth on the balls of her feet as if she were a perpetual motion machine.

Both of them had understood Brenn was going to die.

Both of them had known it had to be done for the future of every human on Earth. Lose a little to gain a lot. All the humans of Earth needed to show the Aesir that while they couldn't overwhelm them, they weren't helpless, either. They still had teeth.

While Rora, and hundreds of others, were out performing their culture for the entertainment of important dignitaries at the Empire's Bicentennial Homecoming Celebration, aiding the Aesir in distracting themselves, the Resistance on the inside had planned a far more explosive, worldwide, celebration. The only thing fitting for the 200th Occupation Day Celebration.

What a fucking fool she'd been.

After the ash had fallen to the ground and she was safe on the Hestia, she'd been glad to have Rora's fiddle, or any piece of her at all. How had she been so willing to be the face and voice of an uprising, fancying herself some sort of timeless hero like Michael Collins, and leave Rora a widow? In the end, perhaps it'd been better she'd suffered instead.

She set the instrument back in its case and placed the cloth beside it, then closed the lid and latched it shut. Restless fingers with nothing to do sought her wedding ring. Two hands clasping a crowned heart of emerald. Around and around her thumb went, polishing the metal and stone. All the while, Tara waited for her to continue.

"The dream was so real. The icy air chilled me to the bone and I could smell the rain. Every second I knew what was about to happen, but I couldn't wake up no matter how much I tried."

Tara's gaze didn't waver.

Brenn's voice caught when she tried to speak again. A moment later, Tara was beside her, a strong arm wrapped around her shoulder.

Tara whispered no platitudes and gave no impossible promises. She uttered none of the shite folks out here told refugees about how the governments of the Free Allied Territories would solve all their problems. They said it for themselves, mostly. A pat on the back for a job well done, then they were free to go and never see how many remained broken long after they walked away, taking their promises with them.

"Take your time," she said.

Brenn shook her head and swallowed hard. "There were a lot of Resistance members among the performers and service staff caught on the outside during the Uprising. Rora was our leader out there, and every night they covered for her and a few others while they smuggled whatever food and medical supplies our sympathizers could round up out of the Aesir City and into the Old City. Every night, in, and then out again before they knew she was gone.

"It was too dangerous for me to be out because every guard and collaborator knew my face and wanted to make an example of me. She'd ordered me to stay hidden, but I just wanted to see her. I never should have been there to see it happen.

"The guards shouldn't have been there, either. When they shot her, she didn't make a sound--" She took a deep breath. The images tried to flash again and she pushed them back. No. She wouldn't relive it anymore this morning. "Rora fell to the grass silently that night, but in my dream she screamed for me. Desperate screams, like nothing I've ever heard before. I shouted telepathically that I was there, I could see her, and she wasn't alone. I would go to her if I could, but I was too far away. I told her I loved her and she wasn't alone and I was sorry. But she kept screaming and screaming."

Like the banshee's wail, those screams had been, and just as haunting. They'd lingered in her ears for hours after she'd woken, echoing in the quiet moments throughout the day.

Tara squeezed again. "I'm so sorry."

"The worst part is how I thought I felt her there, through our bond, in that moment. That she was in real danger, out there somewhere, afraid she was going to die. I keep feeling her, still, like I could connect if I tried hard enough. But when I try, there's nothing but a blank space. A fog."

They sat in silence for a time with Brenn's words piled up on the table before them; a bitter feast of sorrow. Brenn pulled back enough so she could look into Tara's eyes. Her dark brown irises had a warm glow from the galley's lighting.

"I felt it when--when she died. When her mind cut off from mine. I guess it's a side effect of a telepathic bond. We were never able to claim her body, so in a way I was lucky. I got closure when so many others in the District never do."

The moment's after Rora's death had passed in flashes. No matter how she'd fought, or how hard her fists had crashed into their flesh, her cousin and his husband hadn't yielded. They'd created a human wall to contain her grief. Beyond them medical supplies and prepackaged food had lain scattered in the mud around Rora's body. Her curls, soaked through with mud, had spread around her head like a crown.

Those curls haunted Brenn.

She'd thought she'd seen a human man hover over Rora's body, but could never figure out whether it was before or after the Aesir had left. Whether he'd been with them, or alone. It had seemed like when she'd blinked again, he was gone, and so too was Rora. But it had to have been longer. People didn't disappear into thin air and memories lied. Especially the painful ones.

"Our intelligence operation was broken after the Uprising. All we managed to find was a note in her file saying she'd been killed for 'seditious' behavior and another saying how much of a pity it was she'd been 'misled' for all her talent." The words carried a lingering, rancid aftertaste. "There wasn't anything about where her body had been taken."

Tara pulled away from the embrace and took Brenn's hands. They were soft. Warm, too.

"Even I find myself wondering if my father is still out there somewhere, and I followed him every step of the way. I held his hand as he died, walked with him to the crematorium, and we had a beautiful service attended by nearly a thousand people. You were there beside me, but I still wake up and think he'll call. It's understandable, even after all this time, that you still wonder. Very few humans know what it is like to share not just their body and soul with another, but their mind as well."

Maybe that was it. She had no one to ask.

"Thank you," Brenn whispered because she didn't know what else to say.

Tara squeezed her hands, and sobs returned. They erupted with the force of an explosion and no way to contain them. She saw stars from the pain of her rib and poor battered brain. Tara held her as she choked and gasped on the sorrows she'd finally set free. When the tears slowed, she rested against her friend's shoulder, exhausted, aching, and wrung out.

"Incoming call from Mom," Hestia said in her soothing, human-like voice. Tara must have turned off her interface during their conversation. Brenn felt Tara's sigh more than heard it.

"I got up early so I could call her, but it's just like her to call first."

Helena did have a way of taking control, even unintentionally. Hazard of being larger than life. Damned inconvenient too.

"Should I tell your mother you're busy ?" Hestia wasn't a sapient AI, but times like this her voice seemed to carry compassion and understanding. Brenn pulled back from Tara and met her eyes. Brenn tried to smile through the snot and half dried tears but only managed to get halfway there.

"Take the call. I need to finish tuning the fiddle, and then I'm going to lay down again. I'll be alright. You know she'll just keep calling."

Tara squeezed her shoulder with a sort of resigned look in her eyes that said she didn't believe Brenn.

"Okay, but I'm here if you need me. Just let me know."