The characters belong to the collective genius of Kemper, O'Bannon, Henson, and all the rest. Thanks to Nicole for the beta and the idea.

***

With his eyes closed, he ran through the fields. Long stalks whipped at his outstretched arms. From far away and behind him, he heard the laugh of an older boy, heard the heavy golden heads of grain knocking together in his passage, but he was free as he pumped his legs over land he knew like his own bedroom. Faster he went, and faster. If he ran fast enough, his feet would leave the ground and he could fly over the fields, over the house, so he ran, leaving his beloved pursuer stumbling and distant.

As it had so many times before, the blaring alarm shook him from sleep.

Tauvo rolled from under the covers to his feet, pulling on clothing, his movements smooth from years of habit. His mind clung to the dream a few microts longer before it dispersed.

Nyra was already dressed and to the door when he pulled on his boots. She threw him a teasing look which needed no words; he had been the slower to rise since they had first recreated with each other, three weekens ago.

"I'm ready," he said, and followed her. Overhead and echoing through the corridors, the alarm continued, interspersed with a single terse order: "Pleisar Regiment, report to the Briefing Room." Doors opened as they passed, spitting out their sleepy crewmates in ones and twos. The regiment fell into step, not quite a march, but in flawless pace nonetheless. When a regiment was in battle, they needed to know the movements of every member, and the Pleisar Regiment had honed that knowledge to a precision which had made them nearly legendary.

They filed into the Briefing Room perfectly aligned. No one waited for them.

Nyra, still ahead of him, stifled her yawn. Klaxis leaned over from his right and whispered, "Do you know what this is about?"

Tauvo shook his head. "They'll tell us when they tell us."

Klaxis let out a sound that might have been a snort, and Tauvo knew the other man didn't believe him. The rest of the regiment were convinced he knew more about their assignments than they did. Didn't Tauvo have dinner privately with the Captain at least two or three times a weeken? Surely Captain Crais let slip details of what was to come next, and Tauvo ought to share.

At first, he'd tried to minimize the whole thing, and still did. Certainly no one could accuse him of putting himself above his crewmates, whatever his relation to their superior. He took the same watches, flew the same dangerous sorties, even volunteered for double shifts and high-risk missions. Bialar might single him out now and then, but his brother knew better than to be easy on him. Their meals together were a small enough indulgence to be overlooked.

The door slid open. The Captain entered, flanked by two officers Tauvo knew on sight but not by name. His brother scanned their faces, met his eyes for a knowing fraction of a second, and moved on to take in the rest of the regiment.

Tauvo swallowed his smile. The fact that his regiment had their orders given to them personally by the Captain rather than someone lower on the command chain was also an indulgence, but it was one the group had earned for itself.

"A Leviathan in this sector carrying convicts to Taran Rau sent out a distress call less than an arn ago. The prisoners have apparently seized control of the ship. Your orders are to retrieve the Leviathan with minimal damage, and retake or kill the prisoners. Questions?" There were none. "Dismissed."

As a group, they turned and filed into the adjoining Armory. Here they broke form, each going to the location which held flight suits fitted to his or her particular body. Tauvo suited up beside Klaxis, who had a similar height and build.

"How long do you give them?" asked Klaxis.

"The prisoners? Quarter arn."

"Does that include securing the Leviathan?"

"Make it an even half arn, then. They might have picked up weapons from the guards."

Klaxis grinned. "Okay, half an arn it is. I'll say, all the guards are dead and we don't recover more than two of the prisoners."

"You're on." They donned their helmets, and went in silence to the Docking Bay, which adjoined the Armory through a short corridor.

What would Klaxis say, he wondered, if he could overhear the dinnertime conversations of the brothers Crais? Would he be more shocked by the stream of dirty jokes, or by the fact that their stoic Captain could laugh out loud? Behind the closed door, they could pretend they were the carefree small boys from long ago instead of the men they had become, with duties that often drew them in different directions.

Tauvo found his Prowler being examined by two techs. The shorter, a female, wiped away a spot she had probably dripped onto the side while refilling one of its varied fluids. Tauvo could still find his way around the engine of a harvester, but he didn't know and didn't want to know about the internal workings of his ship. That was a tech's job, and he'd worked too hard avoiding a tech classification in his early career.

"Is she ready?" he asked the male tech.

"Yes, sir." The tech didn't elaborate, nor did Tauvo want him to do so. Instead, the pair helped him into his Prowler, made a cursory examination of the seals, then scurried with their fellows out of the Docking Bay.

Tauvo allowed the safety of his Prowler to surround him as he awaited the order to take off. This was what he knew: the scarlet light, the ease of the controls under his touch. Here he wasn't an abducted Peacekeeper recruit, or the Captain's baby brother and sole confidante. In his ship, he was Tauvo Crais, Icarian Company, Pleisar Regiment.

The comm spat: "Go."

Tauvo maneuvered his tiny ship out of the bay towards the sharp, bright stars.