Some people played poker well. 

Lieutenant Rayani Kovash was not one of those people. The tall chief helm officer wore her heart on her sleeve, and her emotions plastered all over her face. 

“I not think telepaths should be allowed on this mission,” she declared in a voice loud enough to be heard two decks below.

Hale sat back in his chair, watching her carefully. He agreed with her, but as he played poker excessively well nothing of his personal feelings on the matter showed on his face. “The captain has decided that it would be unfair to make it an order and it should instead be a choice.”

“Raan is wrong!” she exploded, shoving off from the edge of his desk where she’d been perched and stalking around the room like an enraged tiger. Given his office was tiny, that gave her three steps before she had to turn around and four steps the other. 

“He might be captain, but he’s wrong. Look this way,” she slammed her hands down on his desk, glaring at him. “If I was telepath, in the middle of high speed maneuver, and this blood dilithium made brain fritz out, all die.”

Hale met her gaze levelly. He agreed, but he’d already made his feelings clear to Mason privately. 

“I will bring your concerns up with the captain,” he replied calmly, even though the pilot was anything but. She was rivan, and rivan’s were known to be crazy. Probably had something to do with their parents throwing them off their eerie-like tower homes in wing-suits practically before they could walk. What rivan’s didn’t know about flight wasn’t worth knowing, but even he had to admit, Kovash was a handful. 

“You’ve known the captain for a while then?” he asked after a moment, watching as her anger drained and she hitched one hip to perch on the edge of his desk in an elegant movement.

“Uh-huh, before fleet,” she nodded, walking her fingers along the edge of the desk. On another woman he might have taken that to be a flirtatious movement, but not with Kovash. She had him pinned with an eagle-eyed stare with no hint of that kind of interest. “We are eridaas.”

He waited a moment to see if any explanation was going to be forthcoming. “Eridaas?” 

Were she and the captain in a relationship he didn’t know about? It seemed highly unlikely. The Resolute was a small ship so he’d have seen something if they were. But there had been no kind of romantic indications between the two. If anything, they moved and interacted like old friends who were comfortable with each other. 

She paused for a moment, then picked up a pair of glasses from his desk, turning them over in her hands. The metal of the frames caught and glinted in the lights as his stomach automatically clenched.

“Eridaas,” she repeated again, as if saying the word slightly louder would automatically impart the meaning to him. “Those who have faced death together and prevailed?”

“Please put those down,” he said automatically, his focus on her words. “So like battle buddies or maybe wingmen?” 

“Wingmen! Yes! This is right!” She placed the glasses down carefully and he let go a small sigh of relief. 

“We are this wingmen. We met during his war, I hired out as pilot back then. War ended, and we join fleet together. Raan is male, therefore dumb.”

He blinked a little at that scathing assessment of his gender. But as far as he knew, rivan culture was matriarchal. 

Kovash’s face split into a wide grin. “Stories I could tell. Captain and drink, ooooohhhweee!” 

She shook her head. 

“But not appropriate for situation without alcohol and deeper friendship. Is all now?” she asked, her head tilted to the side. 

“Of course,” he inclined his head and then, belatedly, offered a small smile. “Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention. I will relay them to the captain.”

“Gratitude.” 

He watched the tall woman hop off the desk and walk out the door, her white hair a banner that warned all others of her impending arrival.

As the door slid shut, he reached out and readjusted the position of the glasses on his desk so the frame lined up precisely with the edge. Silence crept in from the edges of the room, resorting his calm and balance.  

Not appropriate for situation without alcohol and deeper friendship…

He frowned, pondering the possibility that their crazy chief helm had just, indeed, made an overture of friendship.