She tried to stifle a yawn, failed – physical exhaustion bearing down on her heavily, muscles turning painfully stiff. Just covering the yawn was an effort. Her skull throbbed with each heartbeat. All of it was the result of final dissipation, withdrawal from the hormones that had kept her up, through the fight with Goshram and the negotiations with the group. Althea was worse when Traejan returned with a tray of food. She forced herself to shovel down the lumpy broth into her demanding stomach. The muck left an unpleasant, thick sticky coating on the inside of her mouth. Her little friends needed sustenance as much as she did, so she suffered silently.

“You have a keen understanding of the mercenary mind,” Kyso told her, smile glowing, returned to sit in the chair the man Obe’s had, right across the table from her.

“There are always people like that,” she forced out, wiping offending sauce from her lips. In the Palmyri Century – on the lost worlds – they could be found “on any world.”

Weakness had her leaning forwards on her arms, over the battered and stained table. Her eyelids were heavy as she looked across at Kyso.

“Even civilized ones,” Althea told him flatly – the Palmyri weren’t anything to brag about. “You learn to deal with them. Greed is always a predictable motive, desperation too.”

Leaning against the other side of the table, Traejan interposed himself into the discussion.

“And that makes you believe you can trust them,” his voice was bitter, unyielding, his glance, disapproving. “You do know the kind of people you’ve chosen?”

She knew, tiredly waved him on. Go ahead, vent.

“Thieves, bastards – I know at least one is a killer,” he pointed out. “How do I know, you ask?”

She had enough strength to shrug, barely.

“Because he killed someone right outside this hall,” Traejan continued. “Left the body on the bloody snow, for everyone to see.”

“Then I’ll need you to keep an eye on them,” she told him through another stifled yawn.

“Six of them,” Traejan pointed out. “Three of us.”

Four.

Kyso turned to him.

“I would say she counts as four or five on her own, boy.”

Althea winced at the compliment. She looked over the mug of brew Kyso pushed over to her, then up the old man, raised her eyebrows. He flashed a grin. She could easily smell the harsh tang of alcohol.

“It’s strong,” he warned her.

Just what she needed. Alcohol, though excellent fuel for her NANs, could ruin her coordination, her judgment and potentially knock her out completely. She desperately needed something to wash away the foul stickiness in her mouth. It was worth the risk. Althea took the mug in both hands, took a sip. It tasted of chemicals, ashes, but it was strong. She gulped it down, relishing the sudden warmth it provided.

“They will turn against us.” Traejan said it as though he knew it to be a fact. “Is that what you want?”

It would make certain things easier, she decided, if they did. At least morally.

“I want skill,” she told him instead. “I want experience.”

“What you’re going to get is a knife in the back,” he insisted. “Probably several.”