Darkship Renegades by Sarah A. Hoyt

it too, because he sprang away from me, as I stepped away from him. If I looked as sheepish as he did, we were a sorry sight, like juveniles caught necking. But Zen looked perfectly natural.
    She was wiping her hands on a disposable rag. “If it’s easier for you two,” she said. “I can take a cab from the door. I mean, if you have plans.”
    I don’t know why, but the fact that she said it naturally, without the slightest hint of salacious meaning, made it worse. I felt heat and blush climb from somewhere around my navel to my face. Kit looked away, but smiled and said, in a reasonable imitation of his normal manner, “No, no. It’s fine. We have no plans beyond spending the evening with my family. If you want to come with us, and have dinner…” He nodded. “I mean, my parents know you as well as they…I mean, they’ve seen you grow up and they’re very fond of you, and Doc is coming over for dinner anyway. It’s by way of being a celebration, or…or a farewell dinner or something.”
    The “or something” was probably correct, since it never seemed to occur to any of the Denovos that we would not be able to return victorious. So they were celebrating—in anticipation of—our victory, as well as saying goodbye for a time. I felt like this was surely the way ancient adventurers were sent off, when the village had no idea of what dangers they might face but knew, because they were the best of their people, that they couldn’t help but succeed.
    Zen hesitated. She frowned a little, her eyebrows gathering over her perfectly straight nose. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Finally, she shook her head, and her eyes acquired that extra hint of reserve that was common around me, even if not always around Kit. “No, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it, but I…” A deep breath. “I’m a member of no family. And besides, I have plans for the evening.”
    There was something so…ice-queenish about her, that I couldn’t wonder what her plans were. I was sure, in any case, that the stars would burn cold and vacuum swallow the universe before I knew what they were.
    Kit lowered his head just a little. “If you’re sure,” he said, and put his arm around my waist. “But I warn you that there is chocolate cake. Or at least that’s what Doc said there would be. Don’t complain to us afterwards that you didn’t get any. The supply of chocolate we could get on the ship is limited.”
    For just a second I thought that Zen was going to tell him what he could do with the chocolate cake, and it wouldn’t be pleasant. Then her frosty expression melted, and she said, “I promise to hold you harmless of my lack of chocolate, Cat Sinistra,” she said.
    The ice having melted, we left the room, which both Zen and I verified was closed behind us, and walked along the empty corridor that led to the more populated part of the complex. We didn’t talk, because when you’re afraid your words are being picked up by listening bugs, noted down and marked for examination, you don’t talk. Particularly not when the subject taking up all of your thoughts and all of your concerns is something that you think the powerful people in your society are against. You shut up and walk along.
    Kit and I didn’t even talk in our minds, partly because one could usually see when Cat and Nav were talking to each other mentally. Or at least I could tell when Kit’s family were doing it. There was the expression that seemed to indicate that people were looking inward, or somewhere that no one else could see. And there was the slightest of lags between stimulus and response.
    It wouldn’t be difficult for anyone watching us to realize that we were talking to each other. And if we did that too much, they’d come to think we were hiding more than we were. In fact, they might think we knew far more than we did know.
    So we walked along the dark corridor, all three sets of footsteps echoing over the high, vaulted