Honour's Knight by Rachel Bach

hours, but there was no way I was going back to bed. Not with my whole body stuck in fight or flight.
    When my pulse still hadn’t calmed down after a minute of sitting still, I decided it was time to take a walk. Something repetitive and nonstrenuous would drive off the panic, and if I was quick, I could get another couple hours of rest in before the jump ended. That sounded good enough to me, so I heaved myself off the floor and slipped into the hall.
    The Fool was dark and silent. Since there was nothing to do in hyperspace, it was one of the only times everyone on the ship could be asleep at once. I crept past the other bunks, my bare feet silent on the rubber mats. My idea was to go down to the cargo bay and run some laps where I wouldn’t bother anyone, but when I reached the lounge, I was surprised to see a light shining under the closed door. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.
    I opened the door and stuck my head in, but I didn’t see anyone. The lounge was dark except for the runner lights and the lamp over the kitchen counter, the light I’d seen. Hopes for company dashed, I walked into the kitchen to cut the light off. But as my fingers landed on the switch, I caught something out of the corner of my eye.
    Normally, it takes a bit more than a glimpse to send me into battle mode, but I was already jacked up, and I whirled around, hand going for the pistol that wasn’t there. Good thing, too, because it wasn’t the black-scaled creature from my nightmares waiting for me in the dark. It was the cook.
    He was sitting on the couch in the corner, which was why I hadn’t seen him from the door. He was hunched over with a glass cupped between his hands like an offering, and there was a freshly opened bottle of whiskey on the low table in front of him that, even in the dark, I could see was mostly empty. It was that more than anything that made me pause, because for some reason, I had the very distinct impression that the cook did not drink.
    The memory of the weird immunity I’d had in my dream must have stuck with me, because I looked straight at him without thinking. But I was back in the real world now, and the revulsion hit me with a vengeance. I spun away at once, pushing my hands into my stomach. I was still fighting the nausea when I heard the soft whisper of movement behind me as the cook started to get up.
    “Don’t,” I said. “I mean, don’t leave on my account. I’m just passing through.”
    The movement stilled, and then I heard the couch creak as the cook sat back down. I let out the breath I’d been holding and started for the cargo bay stairs, eager to get out of this awkward situation. But after the first step, my feet stopped.
    I couldn’t begin to explain why. The cook was the last man in the universe I wanted to spend time with. Not only was I apparently allergic to his face, my brain had picked him out of everyone to be my dream executioner back in the bunker. That had to mean something, but I just couldn’t make myself leave. The image of the nearly empty whiskey bottle was stuck in my head like a hook, and I just couldn’t shake the feeling that the cook drinking alone was wrong. Very wrong. And I needed to do something about it.
    “Need” was too light a word, actually. This was more like a compulsion. Maybe it was just another sign that I was going nuts, but whatever the reason, I was too tired to fight it.
    Feeling like a complete moron, I turned and walked into the kitchen to grab a tumbler off the rack. Glass in hand, I crossed the lounge again and sat down on the couch beside the cook. When I was settled, I leaned over and snatched the bottle off the table.
    “What are you doing?”
    His voice was a whisper, but the words were remarkably crisp for a man who’d consumed most of a fifth of whiskey.
    “Taking a shot for you,” I answered, emptying the last of the liquor into my cup. “King’s health.”
    I tossed the drink back before he could reply.