Vinaed

The instant the last officer leaves the COM room, Grayson turns and drives her fist straight into the side of Voss’ armored face. The surprise hit sends the Executor neatly to the ground, and Grayson follows him down, snatching at the front of his suit with what she suspects might now be a sprained hand. Despite this, her fingers quickly find adequate purchase and she brings her scowling face to within an inch of his.

“Don’t you ever,” she hisses between clenched teeth, instinctively tightening her grip on him, “ever hide anything from me ever again.” A bolt of pain tears through her hand and it threatens to sieze; she makes a face, but does not loosen her hold. “If this is going to work, we’re going to have to start trusting each other,” she explains tightly, “and you haven’t exactly been making that easy. Now, I understand that your people aren’t used to playing with others, and that what passes for a completely acceptable, responsible act back home might be slightly different than what constitutes the same here, but let me tell you something, Executor.” She leans in. “Your people and mine? We’re friends now. I know that’s a new word for you, so let me define it in case it comes up in the future.” Her dark eyes go hard. “A friend is someone you place value in your relationship with. I believe we see eye-to-eye on that at this point, but what I think you might be missing is this little part: friends don’t let friends march to their death.” She releases him at last and gets to her feet, then offers him her good hand. “Ever.”

With a conceding grunt, Voss grabs her hand and hauls himself up. “That is foolish—” he starts.

“I prefer ‘loyal’,” Grayson interjects peevishly, moving back to the conference table and leaning against the edge. She frowns and nurses her swollen knuckles.

Caught somewhere between being amused at the petty justice at play there and being frustrated with himself for having allowed his pride to make that possible, Voss stares at Grayson for a moment, then makes a short, derisive noise. “Call it what you want. From my standpoint, I was doing you a favor—” he says, but Grayson cuts him off once again.

“Bullshit!” Grayson snaps, head whipping up to glare at him. She points an accusatory finger in his direction. “You were doing yourself a favor by pulling out before you had a chance to put yourself in our debt!”

“Further in your debt,” Voss corrects, taking a few steps towards her. “We were already in your debt.” Grayson narrows her eyes and he shakes his head. “But no, you don’t understand. All of this was…” He looks away for a second, struggling to find an appropriate turn of phrase. “Bad timing.” He returns his gaze to Grayson, who raises an expectant eyebrow at him. He makes a displeased noise. “Everything came together very quickly – I suggested the course of action that I thought was best under the circumstances.” He pauses, thinking. “This,” he says after a while and gestures to the two of them with a clawed finger, “was never supposed to happen. At least not now. Allowing you to commit your resources to our cause wasn’t something we – as a people – were prepared to accept.”

Grayson shrugs a shoulder. “Resources or not, we were committed,” she says flatly. “As soon as you contacted us and we agreed to help you, we were committed. That’s how it works.” She sighs heavily and rubs her forehead, a dull ache beginning to form there. “Why didn’t you tell me about the genetic link as soon as you found out? It would have made things easier—”

“Bullshit,” Voss cuts in, using the term for the very first time. Grayson gives him an annoyed look. “I felt strongly that it would have weight with the Oban, but it was by no means a guarantee and we needed to be prepared for the worst. You would have seen it this way as well, and we would have ultimately found ourselves in the same situation.” He draws himself up. “It was time to act. I did what I thought was best – for both of us.”

Grayson pulls away from the table and walks past Voss; she comes to a halt before the large, inactive viewscreen at the front of the room and stands facing it, silent, for a long time. Eventually, she turns her head to the side to speak and, when she does, her tone is considerably calmer. “So what do you think the best course of action is now?” She asks. “You have a lot on your plate in Sector 10 now that the Oban are to share it with you, and I’m prepared to leave you to it. Perhaps, after things have settled and if your people are so inclined, we can try this again. Hopefully under less…stressful circumstances?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Voss replies. Grayson turns to face him; though he finds himself unable to interpret the particular look on her face, it compels him to extrapolate on his previous sentence. “Though we remain wary,” he says carefully, a strange weight pressing down on him as he continues on, “we are genuinely grateful to Vinaed-2 for its speedy and pragmatic response to our plea. We didn’t expect it. We had, after all, given ourselves every reason not to.” He stops here and takes a few slow, deep breaths, as though considering his next words. Finally, he comes out with it. “It shamed us.” He admits. “All of us.”

Grayson tries but is unable to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up into a small smile. “Is that an apology?” She asks delicately. There is a high probability that the question will derail the conversation and potentially ruin her chances at hearing what she suspects Voss is getting at, but she still feels it’s worth it.

“No.” Comes the Executor’s decided reply.

Because of course it isn’t, Grayson grumbles internally, but manages to maintain her smile anyway. “So what is it, then?” She asks.

Voss shrugs. “What it is.” He states, irritated, then moves on at once. “My people wish to continue to explore the possibility of an alliance with Sector 9, if,” he adds, taking a step towards Grayson, “Vinaed-2 and her commander are amenable at this time.”

Grayson’s smile widens. “They are,” she replies with a polite nod, “and I’m relieved to hear that.” Voss relaxes visibly at this, and the two stand facing each other for a good thirty seconds before Grayson gives a perfunctory nod and turns to leave. “I’ll meet with High—” She starts, then stops abruptly when Voss’ hand graps her wrist.

“Grayson.”

She turns back around to look at him, eyes wide. “Yes?”

He bows his head slightly. “Thank you,” he says quietly. Grayson’s smile is foreign to him. He stays still for a split second longer, considering saying something more, then decides against it. He releases her and promptly exits the COM room.