The shuttle rattled as Marat hung on the reverse thrusters, unused baggage straps swinging from the ceiling. Over the cycles, he'd burned the scent of tobacco into all of the fittings until it was inexorably his craft.

Out the trussed front window, Io couldn't tell if she was looking at the Zeb or the Academy. Elder Tallulah had told her that the two ships had been built on the same type of Kirlian Spine, although there were obvious differences in the structures erected atop the spacefaring central spindle.

"Mousedeer two alike," she'd called it. "An old Kirlian saying."

—"The way she went and made me 'acting' Captain, it was almost like she was asking for it, Boss." Melchizedek grunted as he babied Io's suitcase down from the racks, trying to use his hips but crumpling on the last few inches. "Man, what I'd give to have seen the look on that crone's face!"

Io shuffled glumly in her seat. She didn't want to seem unsure of her decision in front of Mel. In truth, Tallulah had seemed strangely happy, whereas Patricia had tried to dissuade her for hours. "Eyes in the back of their heads," she'd said of the Lin Carrageenan whose signature terminated the letter, and of her House Tian Lung.

Io heard a bump and a groan as something fell on top of Mel. Several thick prayer scrolls about the size of her forearm escaped from an overhead compartment and rolled forward towards the open cockpit.

Mel scooped ahead to keep them from bumping into Marat's chair. "I heard Boss can read," he whispered to him, as if it were a crime.

Marat sighed, his eyes focused on the controls. "Well, I gave her the choice of Huang or Ecclesiastical dialect. She learned Huang, for technical manuals."

Mel gasped. "So these are dead freakin' weight!"

"Give them to her anyway. She can burn them or sell them, or... or..."

Marat trailed off. Choking, he raised a fist to rub his eyes.

"Father, what's wrong?" Io craned her neck to get a glance of Marat's expression.

The man quickly set his hands down and shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Do you..."

Io struggled to utter the words her schoolteacher had taught her were so utterly rotten, an affront to the vision of the Seven.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Do you covet me, father?"

"I love you. Like a real daughter." Marat confessed, facing ahead. "Of course I do—what we have is different. Io, you... chose me."

The girl felt her eyes start to water, and she sensed Marat's did too. She looked to Melchizedek, as she often did when a social situation confused her, but he seemed guilty to be interrupting a tender moment he wasn't privy to. But then his face suddenly lit up and he raised a finger.

"Oh, I remember. Boss lit her sixth mom's hair on fire so she'd get disowned!"

Io blinked away the tears and pretended to laugh. She didn't think it was funny when she did it, and she didn't think it was funny now. But Mel's heart felt fragile in that moment, and she wanted to set him down gently. He was in a sense a little brother. Marat had nursed Mel from ages 4 to 8, Io from 14 to 16—on paper, at least.

It wasn't long before Marat set the craft down in the Academy's forward bay, an identical twin of the same structure aboard the Zebulon.

"Stay safe," he grunted, not meeting her eyes. "I mean it. No crazy stunts."

"See you soon," Io replied.

----------------------------------------

The bay looked under present renovation, ladders propped against the mural-lined walls and against chipped statues of unknown Housers. Her hands occupied by the suitcase, Io was forced to kick the scrolls down the shuttle ramp, hoping to the Seven someone would help her with them later.

At the bottom of the ramp stood a black-haired girl with crimson paper talismans knotted through her tresses. Around her shoulders was a loose, thin jacket of floral-embroidered cotton, with no fasteners save for a large belt made from the same textile. A kimono, Io remembered. Much like the shrug she got from Patricia, it was worn with the amber Athame over a Z-suit during study hours, such was the Academy's commitment to being a practice-led institution.

"This meager one's name is Lin Carrageenan, of House Tian Lung. I trust your parents have seen you off," the girl said, bowing her head slightly. "It's only four years, but it can be painful for some families."

—"Watch what you say around Tian Lung," Tallulah had warned, tapping her skull to illustrate. "Eyes in the back of their head."

"I do not have parents," Io recited flatly. "Not the same way you do. I was mentored through different portions of my childhood by paragons from each of the tribes of the Zebulon, none my birth mother, in the image of the Seven."

"Apologies. This much I've heard." Lin's eyes narrowed and she glanced at her feet. "Blood is a troublesome thing. Needless to say, I am not a Federalist, but... perhaps it would be better if we did things your way."

"Um," Io interrupted. All she could think of was her suitcase, and the scrolls presently swimming in the dust of the loading bay around her feet.

"I was getting to that. Akira?" Lin snapped her fingers.

"With pleasure, milady." Another student emerged from the shadows, a tall thing dragging a hand truck and dressed in what Io recognized from Patty's libertine parties as a maid uniform. The sight of that horrible garb made Io's blood curdle. Akira lowered herself to her knees to lift the scriptures, unfazed by the dust.

Sensing Io's judgment, Lin cleared her throat.

"Now, I was in the middle of taking some of your cohort on a tour of the facilities. If you would kindly join us..."

Io couldn't help but side-eye the subservient Akira before she swallowed her reservations—her first impression of Lin was so conflicted as to make her head spin. But she could at least read the air enough to move on.