Kinnit leaned against Grimthorn. They were tucked away in their little nook, where they spent most of their non-work time, snuggled up on the sofa, enjoying each other's company. Kinnit was reading through her latest adventure novel on her scanner

  She was smiling at the antics of the sidekick in her story when her scanner beeped. She frowned at the scanner. It was kind of an unusual time to be getting a call. She pulled up the identifier and her eyebrows rose. She glanced at Grimthorn, but he was fully immersed in his reading.

  Kinnit rose from the couch.

  "I'll be right back," she said.

  "Mmhmm," Grimthorn replied, still focused on his book.

  She stepped out into the empty hallway, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. She poked her scanner to answer the call.

  "Hey, hey, hey, it's my favorite spy-in-training!" came the voice through her scanner.

  "Dass?" she said. "Why are you calling me? Are you okay? You sound--"

  "Everything's fine," he said, smoothly rolling over her words. "No problems at all. I've just picked up a little bug. It's nothing. Look, I had some news for Grimthorn, but he's not talking to me at the moment."

  "Oh, do you want me to get him? He's right over--"

  "No, no, don't bother him. It's just a little thing. Just a little--" he paused, and a nasty belching sound rattled across the line. Kinnit's brow knitted. "Sorry," Dass continued. "Just a little cold. Anyway, I need to let him know I've taken down the agent that planted that wire in Commander Ordren's office. He was going by the name Koro Melemann."

  Kinnit nearly dropped her scanner. She pictured the happy, friendly little Lutrin.

  "Koro? That's ridiculous. He's just a journalist."

  "Not so much. He's former NavInt, working in signals intelligence. He used to go by Koro Wyn. Grimthorn can look him up."

  "What, you're telling me that he was a spy, like you?"

  "Yeah. A good one."

  "I can't believe it. He's so..."

  "Lovable? Fluffy? That was his cover. Fifteen years ago, he decided the money was better in the private sector. He killed a couple agents on his way out. I thought he was dead." Dass paused to burble. "I was wrong."

  Kinnit began pacing.

  "I can't believe it!" she said. "He was so nice!" She frowned. "But it was around the time that he interviewed me, that's when we found out about the wire... when Jorya was killed..." She ground her teeth in frustration. "That little rat! He was so nice!"

  "Yeah, well. Lessons learned, right?"

  "I hope he's in prison for the rest of his life!"

  "Ah... well. He's not going to prison."

  She paused her pacing.

  "Why not?" she barked.

  "He's dead."

  "Oh."

  "Let Grimthorn know."

  "I just... I can't believe it!"

  "Look, I have to go," he burbled. "Tell Grimthorn, for what it's worth... I'm sorry. He's been a good friend to me all these years, and I appreciate him. I know he doesn't want to hear all that, but I need him to know."

  "Okay, I'll tell him."

  The connection went dead. Kinnit's brow knitted in worry as she looked at her silent scanner. Then Koro's friendly little face surfaced in her mind, scrambling her emotions. She paced for a minute more, muttering to herself in a fury. Then she stopped.

  Whatever else, she needed to tell Grimthorn first. She spun on her heel and headed back into their nook.

  The Cryptographer stood at the table. The table was nearly at knee height, but Cryptographers didn't sit at tables. Tables were for Terrans. Most of the furniture on their ships were for Terrans. Chairs in their chambers were for Terrans. Decorations were for Terrans. Lighting, by and large, was for Terrans.

  For all that the ships were supposedly theirs, they had an awful lot of accommodations for Terrans. And other species, of course.

  The Cryptographer looked at Small Broca, who sat at the table, waiting. He was so very useful. Communicating with those who were not Cryptographers was painful, slow. Their Common language-- Modern Imperial-- was problematic. Linear. Limited. Not beautiful or fun at all. Speaking it was a chore, as though a Terran were told they could only use 20 words of their entire language to communicate with. It could be done, but it was slow and imprecise.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The Cryptographers felt that communications should be rich, complex, poetic. The Terrans had something that called poetry, but it did not even remotely justify the name. It was just abstract, a few thin layers of indirection, metaphor, and imagery wrapped around their dull, kludgy words. The best that could be managed with such a limited language, the Cryptographer supposed.

  The Cryptographer cast his mind back to something another had told him hundreds of Terran cycles before. He still had not managed to work out the full meaning of it; it had been a wonderful communication.

  Now was not the time for puzzling at communications. The Cryptographer could sense the approach of the Admiral. He was a blankness in the churning chaos of this plane, a smooth bump of energy, like most Terrans, like most species.

  The Admiral Stonefist entered the chamber, his face in a set frown.

  "Why have you summoned me?" he asked.

  So predictable. Cryptographers could not read minds, but reading the emotions of the many species of the Imperium was a simple. They positively radiated their emotions. They wanted everyone around them to know how they felt. Even those that had trained themselves to suppress their faces spoke loudly: with their heart rate, with ratio of salt to sweat on their skin, with their blood chemistry. So simple to read.

  Right now, the Admiral Stonefist was annoyed. He stood on the other side of the table, refusing to sit.

  "Greetings," said Small Broca. "We have good news."

  "I have news as well," the Admiral Stonefist said. "We discovered one of the agents of the conspiracy. Koro Melemann, formerly Koro Wyn of Naval Intelligence." The Admiral Stonefist laid a sheaf of slips on the table. "Here's a report of what we know about him. He planted the wire in Ordren's office, and probably mine as well. His cover was as a reporter for the Imperial Clarion. He's dead now."

  The Cryptographer's talons rattled with excitement. A new piece of the puzzle. Many questions suddenly answered, many new ones arose. A useful solution, indeed.

  Focus. The Admiral Stonefist was before them. Address the Terran.

  "We thank you," Small Broca said. He glanced back at the Cryptographer, who nodded. "This is very useful."

  "What's your news? Why did you drag me all the way out here?"

  Typically Terran. Always in a rush, always wanting to simply snatch the meaning out of any interaction. No joy of poetry at all.

  "We can now retrieve the Arcturan detachment for you," Small Broca said.

  Such a useful boy. He knew how to deal with Terrans. He could jump directly to the end of a conversation.

  The Admiral Stonefist's face flushed, his heart rate increased, his galvanic response spiked, yet his face remained smooth. Hope, shock, fear, confusion.

  "Oh?" he replied. "I thought you had to kill a Cryptographer for that."

  "We now have an Aberrant," Small Broca said. "Used to fetch Commander Ordren. We can reuse it to retrieve the Arcturan detachment."

  Heart rate up. Brows down. Stress hormones surging. Fury, excitement, betrayal, guilt. Such a strange mix from the Admiral.

  "I said I didn't want to kill a Cryptographer for this!" he yelled, slamming a fist down on the table.

  "You did not," Small Broca said. "We have created the Aberrant. The Aberrant can break the rules. You can use the Aberrant. There is no impugnment of your morality. Your conscience is no longer a bar."

  "You knew full well what I wanted and didn't want!" The Admiral Stonefist jabbed a finger at the Cryptographer. "It's not about my conscience, it's about, about not killing a Cryptographer!"

  Rage, guilt, more confusion. So strange. The Admiral Stonefist could now have what he wanted without bearing the moral weight of responsibility for the Aberrant.

  "It is not killing," Small Broca said. "It is recycling."

  The Admiral Stonefist paced back and forth.

  "You're sick! You're all sick!"

  "Do you not want to rescue them?"

  "Of course I do! It was my pride, my foolishness that trapped them in jumpspace twenty years ago. They're paying the price for my insufficiency. But I already told you--"

  "You will need them," Small Broca interrupted.

  "Need them? The Ninth Fleet is a thousand ships strong! They're only forty-some-odd vessels. I want to rescue them, but they're not a militarily significant--" The Admiral Stonefist paused, new concerns filling him. "Unless you're telling me that the Ninth is going to be torn down that far? What's coming?"

  "You will need them," Small Broca repeated. "That is all we know."

  "To Geina with what you know! Is the Ninth Fleet going to be destroyed?"

  "We do not know," Small Broca said.

  Poor Admiral Stonefist. Constantly fighting against what he did not have, what he could not know. Always wanting to break the puzzle, jump directly to the solution, skipping all the delicious steps in between, the satisfying work of the solution.

  No wonder he was always angry.

  "The price has already been paid," Small Broca said. "The Aberrant exists, and it will be destroyed. Will you rescue the Arcturan detachment before then?"

  The Admiral Stonefist stopped his pacing and fumed. The Cryptographer watched with fascination as the Admiral Stonefist wrestled his emotions down, forced himself calm, mercilessly wrangled his own thoughts and body chemistry into submission. His fury subsided, replaced with a powerful determination that surrounded him like a nimbus. He took a deep breath.

  "I loathe your manipulation, but I will rescue them. Tell me what to do."

  They began to plan.

  Small Broca. So very, very useful. The Cryptographers were going to miss him very much when he was gone.

  Grimthorn sat in the shuttle, back in the docking bay of the ISS Swordheart. The shuttle had finished landing and shutting down. The dockmaster was standing by, waiting for him to debark, and probably getting nervous about how long it was taking.

  Grimthorn needed a moment. Just a moment to not be Admiral Stonefist.

  He lifted his hands from the quiet controls of the shuttle and looked at them. They trembled. He frowned. There was so much going on. So much was riding on his shoulders. Pirates, conspiracy, rescues. He had to prioritize.

  He had to focus on what was most important.

  His hands slowly formed into fists, squeezing until the trembling stopped. He screwed his eyes shut. When everything is the more important thing, how do you even start?

  How do you prioritize?

  There were many methods for prioritization. In Grimthorn's experience, the best method was to think through each option carefully and ask himself: if everything failed, everything save one, if he could only accomplish one goal, finish one task, which one would it be?

  His eyes popped open instantly. There it was. It was so simple.

  He stood, opened the hatch, and stepped back out into the Swordheart.