surrender ; minsung

head above water

Han Jisung's ship, the Stingray, is built to resemble — yes — a stingray. The commander's chamber, a rotund room poking out the underbelly like a cyst, is where he sleeps and works and doesn't do much else. There is a desk, a bed, a lavatory, and a long window which allows him to stare out into the yawning nothingness and contemplate things no sane human should contemplate.

He sits up in his chair and pushes the com button. Lieutenant Vu's voice greets him.

"Commander Han, sir!" There's a little thump, an overeager salute. "What has happened?"

"Give me something to do."

"Pardon, sir?"

"There must be something. Scut work. Junk watch. Anything."

"Negatory. Everything is running smoothly. We're ten parsecs away from our set destination."

Jisung rubs his hand over his forehead. "You're going to drive me to do something stupid."

"Pardon, sir?"

"Never mind. Carry on."

He takes his finger off the com, leans back in his chair, worrying the stud in his thumb webbing. The stars are moving at a snail's pace. Like they aren't moving at all, like the Stingray has come to a standstill. Like he's a prisoner on his own fucking ship. They say space is the high sea of the new age. But the sea would never drown him so slowly.

He practically vaults out of his chair — grabs the stupid flashy gun that's been sitting on his desk — and to his tele port, dialling the coordinates. Searching. Connecting. Approved. His atoms break down and rebuild aboard the Ender, standing in the commander's chamber. Minho looks up at him from the desk, one eyebrow arched.

"What's that face?" Minho asks.

"What face?"

"You're making a face."

"It's nothing. Vertigo."

He steps down from the port and wanders Minho's chamber. It's at the very peak of the Ender, a cylindrical room barely a quarter the width of Jisung's, but quadruple the height. Speckled with candles, a chain of wooden steps spiral up the wall, leading to the bedroom loft, the lavatory, the library, the lookout. The ceiling is one round skylight, welcoming the faint glow of stars.

Minho has his hands clasped together, his face that familiar blend of mock innocence and mock professionalism, everything mock. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Returning your stupid gun."

He takes it and briefly checks the magazine. "Is that all?"

"No. Last we spoke, you threatened me."

"And?"

"I'm here to ensure you make good on it."

He smiles like he saw that coming. Jisung isn't ashamed.

"Unfortunately," says Minho, "the bridges you burned are still aflame."

"You're... mad?"

"Simply irate."

"I warned you I was going to betray you."

"I do remember that. I also remember a truce."

"A truce is temporary by definition."

"You suggested an alliance. You would've done well to follow through with it."

"I did better by faking it."

Minho feigns a frown. "We are on the outs, Commander Han."

Jisung rolls his eyes. "Minho."

"I haven't even gotten to the security implications. What are the chances we'd raid the same casino on the same earth at the same time?"