"Where did you get a plantain in space?" I asked the Knife.

  He leaned back from the table, spine creaking loudly enough for me to hear, a series of muted pops reminiscent of soft gunfire. By the look on his face, the effect of them wasn't too different from getting shot.

  "Getting old," he said, his voice a low rasp, almost drowned out by the Belithain's ventilation system. My domicile was cool, without being chilly, the only source of warmth the heat from cast-iron frying pan sizzling on the induction coils on my stove. That, and the void wyrm hatchling hidden behind a warded steel partition behind my bunk. Single bunk, single storage, table for four, all scuffed steel and black non-slip strips. My warded leather coat and wide-brimmed leather stockman hat on a peg by the door. Homey. Reminded me of my mess aboard the Bucket.

  "Look in a mirror lately?" I countered, uncomfortable with the Knife's show of weakness. To me, he'd been the leader of the slave-revolt on Remba. Thinking of him as an old man felt wrong.

  Still, I appreciated his presence. Ever since the Star Horse had found its way through the void to join up with the Belithain, the Knife had taken to coming over and dropping his guard when he visited. It bothered me, this drive to become personal and show all his weaknesses, but I couldn't blame him. On the Horse, he was captain, head of police, enforcer, and executioner all rolled up in one. It was a hard ship, made harder by the mishmash of shell-shocked refugees and murderous rogues that lived in its hold, and no way to tell them apart, except when one of the rogues tried to rob or kill some of the refugees. Ten thousand people crammed into a small space, with lots of guns and not enough supplies. Sometimes, I thought that the only thing keeping the Horse from destroying itself was the Knife.

  "What's a mirror supposed to do?" the Knife said, scratching his unshaved chin.

  "Mirrors can tell you secrets," I said. "Like the fact that you are old."

  "That so?" the Knife said. His finger went scritch, scritch, scritch, as if he was digging for a sand louse beneath his skin. Maybe he was. Months away from Remba, the Star Horse still had a lot of disease on board. Every time Riina allowed one of its shuttles to dock with the Belithain, she had her sanitation crew go over it with las-cleaners and chem sprays.

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

  "You going to let him get away with that?" Hao said.

  She could have been the Knife's opposite. Young-ish where he was old, tall where he was short. Well-muscled where he was still showing the signs of years of starvation. Engineer to his commander.

  And yet, they were both very similar, taking life a day at a time, suspicious of everything but trusting to a fault once they decided you were good people. Even their mannerisms were similar, both reclining in my steel chairs, Hao slouched down, the Knife balancing his chair on two legs.

  Friends. Having them still felt odd.

  "Get away with what?" I said.

  Hao raised a bushy eyebrow above her too-blue eyes. I checked the prep desk by the stove. Nothing falling, nothing burning, colors blending. Golden oil, white flour, slightly pink salt, emerald green plantain. Hao's eyebrow remained raised, her look saying that I was making a fool out of myself. Or letting someone make a fool out of me. Right, the question.

  "Where did you get a plantain in space?" I repeated, poking a spatula glistering with rapeseed oil at the Knife.

  Always fry in rapeseed, even when it's vat-made. It tolerates high heat, has a neutral taste, and enhances everything it touches. Every chef should be friends with rapeseed.

  "One of my horses bought it with the settlement from the transport company," the Knife said.

  Meaning that one of the refugees we'd liberated from Remba had elected to remain on the Star Horse, which we'd liberated when fleeing Remba. And the refugee had bought a plantain with the insurance money he'd gotten for being kidnapped by the Syndicates and sold to a deathworld. Strange thing to buy.

  "A plantain tree," the Knife added. Apparently, my face had chosen to betray me.

  I didn't mind. I had a home of my own, the hatchling was safe behind layers of wards and secrecy, and I could end a long, productive day sharing a meal with friends.

  "Good for us," I said, cutting a finger-thick slice of plantain into the rapeseed oil. It started to sizzle, surface water boiling away, spreading a slight vanilla flavor in my domicile. Both Hao and the Knife leaned forward, as if drawn by the scent, sweet and fatty and promising flavors a starship crew could only dream of.

  I dropped another slice into the pan, and another, and another. When they were lightly browned, I took them out, and smashed them with a heavy glass, squishing them into thin, irregular circles. Those I salted, garnished with some chili flakes that I'd traded for with a real chef, and dropped them back in the pan, waiting for them to become golden brown.

  Someone's stomach growled. Possibly mine. I could get used to this kind of life. Cook. Ward. Not get shot. Of course it couldn't last.

  "I need a favor," the Knife said.