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"You're obviously," the mouse panted, breath shaky, "traumatized." An exhale. He put a paw to his forehead, wincing, whiskers twitching in frightful fashion. The pain was a throbbing, pulsating one. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Eyes half-open, he pulled the paw away from his brow. Blood. His wheat-hued fur, his fingers, dripping of ruby-red blood. Much-needed liquid, leaking out. All too real. And he squeaked miserably.

"Shut up," was the biting reply. Also shaky. Also hurt.

"You're obviously," Emerson repeated, ignoring the command, "traumatized, but ... but taking me," he breathed, "hostage? Won't solve your problems."

"I said shut up," was the bark. The femme Arctic fox held a phase pistol in one paw. Set to kill. And had it pointed at the mouse's chest. "Shut," she whispered, "up. Rodent," she cursed.

Emerson, shivering, bleeding, narrowed his eyes and replied (very carefully and quietly), "No."

CHOOM!

Red beam of light, humming, heating the air.

Sparks! The rocky ceiling of the cave giving way. Just a bit. Little shards, little rocks falling, creating a cloud of dust. Making the mouse to squeak with fear. He tried to shield himself, but it didn't do much good. He fell into a fit of coughing, squirming a few feet to his right, away from the debris. Panting, panting, still bleeding from the forehead. His mousey anxiety was beginning to run away with him. He tried to keep it under control. Tried. Prayed. But the fear! Pulse, pulse, pulse.

"I'll kill you, mouse."

"G-go ahead ... " His wispy voice was breaking, quivering.

"You don't think I will?" Her paw shook. The weapon unsteady, her fingers wrapped around the black grip. It was a smooth, silver-highlighted pistol. Federation issue. Emerson had no idea how she'd gotten it. But he supposed that didn't matter. "You don't think I will?" she repeated. "I'm a predator," she reminded him, hushing her voice. Her bushy, luxurious tail was stained. Not looking nearly as alluring as it was meant to.

"I'm ... I'm w-well aware," was the mouse's quiet reply. His nose was sniff-twitching, twitching. Not stopping. Nose and whiskers, go, go, going. Pulse, pulse, pulse. He had the scent of her. The sharp scent of her. And it made his heart go hammer-hammer. Hammer.

"You're scared of me. You're terrified."

"Your p-point?" Emerson squeaked, force in his voice.

"You know I'll kill you. You just don't know when. And, in between? Fear. Just fear, mouse ... and I relish the smell of terrified," she said, showing her sharp, off-white teeth, "prey. It feeds my instinct."

A swallow. "I don't care ... if you kill me? I don't care." He was squeaking, now, chitter-squeaking, whiskers twitch-twitching. All his mousey motions like wildfire. He couldn't stop them. He felt the compulsion to lick his paws and forearms, to groom himself. To swipe at his whiskers with saliva-wetted paw-pads. But she'd only make fun of him for that. Only use it against him. He wouldn't give her that satisfaction.

"Of course you do. You're married, aren't you? I'm sure you are ... that's what you religious types do, isn't it? What would happen to your pretty, little mouse-wife, hmm? If she found your bloody, lifeless corpse?"

Emerson just narrowed his eyes, whiskers twitching. He didn't want to think about that. He wanted to cry, now. Azalea. Where was she? He wanted to cry.

The Arctic fox nodded, nodded. And grinned. "That's right. Weep. You weak, fragile thing. That's ... ow," was the sudden sound. A wince. And she gritted her teeth, growling. "Dammit." Huff, huff. A growl.

"Are you ... " Emerson leaned forward.

" ... did I say you could move?" the Arctic fox replied, steadying her weapon again. Swallowing. "Did I?" she asked, loudly. Her voice echoed throughout the cave.

Emerson had been part of an away team. Yellowknife was in orbit of this rocky, inhospitable world. They'd found a plasma trail leading to the surface (which indicated a crash-landing). So, they'd come down to investigate. Emerson had been closely following Azalea. But a heavy fog had slid in, and they'd taken opposite turns. Emerson, lost, had begun squeaking for her. She squeaked back. And he followed those sounds. But so, unfortunately, had the wounded Arctic fox, the survivor of the crash. And, with predatory ease, she'd pounced upon the mouse, fiercely batting his head with her sharp-clawed paws. Battering him. Drawing blood. And, slipping an arm around his neck, informed him not to give so much as another chitter. Or she would kill him on the spot.

She'd then dragged him back to this cave. Both of them injured. Her from her crash-landing. Him from her attack. And she had a weapon and he did not. She'd also taken his communicator and smashed it with a rock.

"Answer me, mouse! Did I say you could ... "

" ... no. No!" he squeaked, afraid. Sniffling, twitching. "No, you didn't, but in case you didn't notice, I'm a mouse. We MOVE. A lot," he squeaked, sniffling again, wiping his eyes with his paws. "We twitch. I can't help it. And if you want me to stop moving, you're gonna have to shoot me." He shook, closing his eyes. Saying a silent prayer. Calm me down, Lord. Please. Please. Help me.

"Oh, I will. I will shoot you," the Arctic fox whispered, nodding with cold calculation. "But not yet. So, until then ... you will remain perfectly still. You will not lean toward me. You will not jerk. You will not ... "

" ... go ahead. You keep saying you're going to shoot me."

"I am!"

"Then do it!" was the loud squeak, echoing all around. Echoing, echoing.

The Arctic fox extended her arm, pistol pointing, adjusting. So that the discharge would strike the mouse's heart. Mouses were all heart. If you wanted to kill one, that's what you took out first: the heart. Her paw quivered. And she pulled it back. "I'm not ready to kill you yet. I need you as a hostage for ... " A wince of pain. " ... for a little bit longer."

"I'm afraid of you," Emerson whispered. "I'll get that out in the open ... right now. But," he panted, "I'm not afraid of dying."

"No?" she spat.

"No. But you are," he replied, swallowing, nodding at her. "You are, and ... you can kill me, but ... "

" ... I know where this is going. Your faith, right? All about your ... whatever the hell you think is listening to your prayers? Will save your soul?"

"My soul's already saved. Through ... "

" ... I don't want to hear it."

" ... the blood of Christ. And ... "

" ... I don't want to hear it!" was the shout. Violent, crazed. A wounded predator in the dark was ten times more intimidating than a wounded predator in the light of day.

And Emerson held his breath. And slowly let it out, shaking a bit. Whiskers twitch-twitching. His dishy, pink ears, rimmed with dust, swiveled atop his head.

The Arctic fox closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. Trying to think. She didn't know what she was going to do, exactly. She needed a doctor. No doubt the mouse's ship had a doctor. But, no, this was going all wrong, spinning out of control. They wouldn't trust her. Now that she'd taken one of their crew-furs. Now that she'd hurt him. But if she hadn't taken him hostage, they would've snooped around. They would've found her eventually. Better that they find her with a hostage than without. She was a predator. It was better that she had an edge. And, with Emerson in easy range of her phase pistol, she had a definite edge. Yellowknife would have to give her whatever she wanted. Medical supplies. A shuttle-pod.

"What happened to you?" Emerson whispered. Very quietly. Very delicately. With his wispy, airy voice. Being a very peaceable creature, he tried to appeal to her. Tried to defuse the situation. "Huh? What happened?"

"You're a waif, you know that?" the Arctic fox spat.

"What happened to you?" Emerson repeated, ignoring her insult. "What's your name?"

"My name," she replied, swallowing, grimacing in pain, "is none of your concern." She was bleeding from the side. And had a few broken ribs. Internal bleeding, as well. "As for what happened to me?" A pause, and a breath. A ragged breath. "I can't tell you that. If I survive this, and he finds out I ... that I told," she breathed, swallowing. Fear in her eyes. Something a predator rarely showed.

The mouse blinked. At her fear. And at the vague answer. "Who's 'he'?"

"He's brilliant," she breathed, closing her eyes. A small shake of the head. Her white fur wasn't as snowy-white as a snow rabbit's was. Rather, it was an off-white. And her tail had black fringes around the tip. "Brilliant. But beneath that academic veneer, there's ... " She trailed, shaking her head again. "I found that out," she said, eyes opening. Meeting Emerson's. Suddenly serious. "I stumbled upon something I shouldn't have. I compromised his secret agenda, and ... " She trailed off. Picking back up with, "I got put in their brig. I escaped. I killed a fur in the process. But what was I to do? Sit in that cell to rot? He had NO right to hold me! But I killed one of his own, and he wanted blood ... but I'm a fox. We are renowned for our guile. I was smarter. And, using one of his own shuttle-pods, I got away. I made it this far before ... " A frustrated sigh. " ... the engine blew. And, now, here I am."

Emerson squinted, confused. "Who's 'he'?" was the repeat. "Your husband? Or, uh ... foxes openly breed. A breeding partner, then? A fellow officer? Are you in the Arctic fox milita?"

A bark. A laughing sound. "A good guess. And," she breathed, "amusing, as well."

The mouse frowned.

"It's not your place to know," she told him, her voice suddenly cold. Eyes steely. "It is not your place to know what I know. I just want to get back to my species."

"Why are you so far away from them," the mouse pressed, "in the first place? The new Arctic fox Home-world must be a week away from here."

"Arctic foxes have free passage through snow rabbit space. It is part of our peace," she said, almost snarling at the word 'peace', "treaty." A swallow. "And their space is much bigger than ours. I was on a hunt."

"A hunt?" The mouse whispered.

A sigh. A nod. "When we take vacations, we don't lie around, lolling like lovesick things. Like prey do. We don't 'relax.' We prowl. We go to alien worlds and hunt the primitive animals there. Bring back their hides to make into blankets." A slow grin. "We then make love on the pelts," she breathed, eyes glowing, "of what we kill. Isn't that a glorious juxtaposition?"

The mouse, whiskers twitching, head still bleeding, nodded quietly. "I guess so," he replied.

"You guess so?" A raised brow, and a tone of impatience.

"It doesn't sound like my cup of tea."

"No, I guess ... " A small breath. " ... I guess it wouldn't." Another wince. "I was traveling alone. I brought no member of my breeding party along. I had planned on breeding with strangers along the way."

"How could you do that?" the mouse asked, whiskers twitching. Nose going sniff-sniff. "Give yourself to furs you don't even know? I mean ... I mean, not even mentioning the risk of disease. But ... how could you do that?"

"It's quite easy. And quite ... thrilling, as well," she whispered.

"It's also carnal. Primitive." A breath. "There's no meaning behind that."

"If I want to behave like a feral animal, that's my business." She gave the mouse a look-over. "I had a platypus, a buck. This time around. They don't have knots. Male foxes have knots. I missed that ... I really did," she granted. "But, still, I was sowed by a few new species. I keep a list," she said, grinning. Before the pleased expression faded. She gave a sharp, pitiful bark. "I ... I am," she breathed, swallowing. She licked her sharp teeth. "I think I am dying."

Emerson just looked to her, wide-eyed. Saying nothing.

"You must be enjoying this. Watching a predator suffer."

"I'm not," was the slow, honest reply.

"Would you admit if you were?"

Emerson said nothing, whiskers twitching. Just shook his head.

"Thought not."

"I don't enjoy it, though. Think what you want. I'm not lying."

"I enjoyed taking you by surprise, mouse. I enjoyed drawing your blood. I was even going to rape you. I don't have a mouse on my list yet. You were going to be added to my list. But ... my body aches too much. You might have wriggled free before I forced you to sow me. Before I could see you, from inches away, your saliva on my tongue ... see you sob as you helplessly felt that involuntary physical bliss. As I forced you to imprint yourself on my soul." A pause. Staring at him with those harsh, icy eyes. "What do you say to that?"

Emerson twitched, shivering painfully at her confession. His heart increased its beating. He felt like he was going to be sick. "I, uh ... I ... I say," he whispered, collecting himself, keeping his eyes from watering at her cruel intentions, "that I forgive you."

A scoff.

"What's so funny?"

"Forgiveness? There is no ... flavor," the Arctic fox whispered, "to that."

The mouse just narrowed his eyes.

"You and your faith, mouse. You and your species? All rodents. Always shoving religion down everyone's throats."

"I'm not shoving anything down anyone's throat."

"No?" A raised brow.

"No." A breath. Looking to her, narrowing his eyes. "But I always find it very interesting," he breathed, "how the furs who lament the loudest about religion being 'shoved down their throats?' Are furs that are actively trying to shove their deviant sexual lifestyles and opinionated politics down the throats of the religious." A pause, and a breath. "They do the same thing. They're hypocrites."

"Some do it in pushier ways."

"Granted. But most furs who rail against faith ... " A shake of the head. " ... they've no ground to stand on. Science can give plenty of 'what,' but it can't give any meaningful 'why' ... and if I wanna minister about meaning, then that's what I'm going to do. If you can sit here and shove your predatory superiority down my throat, then why can't I shove my faith down yours? Because I guarantee you," Emerson said, panting, "that you need my faith more than I need your predatory superiority."

Another scoff, and she narrowed her eyes, shaking her head. "Damn mouses. You just love to minister, don't you? Every chance they get. Just earlier, you were telling me about how you're not afraid to die because your soul has been saved by the blood of your ... your Christ. Or whoever."

Emerson said nothing.

"He raised himself from the dead in, like ... two days?"

"Three," was the level whisper.

"That defies the laws of nature. The laws of physics."

"The universe creating itself out of nothing defies the laws of physics, as well. But, apparently, you have no problem believing that," was Emerson's retort. "I have an easier time believing the former."

"Do you wish to argue the existence of God? With me? You will fail, mouse. I promise you that."

"Then what are you waiting for?" The mouse gritted his teeth, a fiery passion burning in his veins, and his tail side-winding on the hard, dusty floor of the cave. "Do it!"

"Fine. Fine." A nod, still holding the phase pistol. "Let's start," she panted, grimacing through her pain, "with your Savior, shall we?"

Emerson glared, breathing heavily. Drops of blood drip-dripping from the ends of his twitching whisker-tips. It almost looked, in the very dim light of the cave, like he was crying blood.

"Why's He necessary, huh? Why doesn't your God just ... take it upon Himself to be generous? And bestow forgiveness upon everyone, regardless of what they believe or do? Why the need for sacrifice? Why the need for repentance, redemption? Why the need for your Christ? If God is so good, why should anyone be sent to Hell ... for any reason?"

A breath. As Emerson whispered, "Nothing truly great is ever gotten ... without great effort. Nothing truly worthwhile is ever felt without great energy. And nothing truly wondrous is ever received without a great amount of giving. These are truths of life. The nature of sacrifice? Anything else would be too easy. Would have no mettle. Would break under pressure. But a sacrifice stands the test of time. Stands the test of reason. There is no greater gift than life, and by giving His life to us ... Christ gave US life. It is a gift. Freely given. You may take it, or you may reject it."

"So, I reject it," the fox said, nodding, panting. A wince. "And I go to Hell? That right?"

"You're invited to a party. A great, beautiful feast. It's free. No charge. You receive the invitation. And you toss it aside. You receive another. You rip it up. Again and again, you are invited, and again and again ... you scorn the one who invited you. And, then, suddenly, you're hungry. Suddenly, you're lonely. You go to the house where the party is being thrown, but the gates have been closed." A pause, staring. A breath. "Why should you be let in when you made the decision not to attend?"

"Because if God is truly good, He will not care."

"It was your choice to arrive after the gates closed. With your own free will ... you came too late. How is that God's fault? He gave you plenty of time. You brushed the host aside. And you expect to be let in? You have no true feelings for the host. You just want his food. You just want his drink. You don't want him."

The Arctic fox narrowed her eyes.

The mouse, taking a breath, continued, "Such is the scenario ... with Christ. The invite has been sent. The party is free. But going to the party entails that you love the one who is hosting it. Otherwise, why are you there?"

"Because ... "

" ... you deserve it? None of us deserves anything. We are not deserving," the mouse whispered, "of anything. What we receive, daily, are blessings. Not birthrights. Blessings," he whispered. "They come from God."

"We make our own blessings, mouse."

"Do we? How?"

"We just do," the Artic fox replied, not able to elaborate. And giving a small growl from the throat. "And what of furs who have never heard of Christ? They are punished because their invitation got lost in the mail?"

"God deals with them. He deals with their souls. After, He gives them a chance. I don't know ... how He does that, exactly, but He accounts for that. He wouldn't be an omniscient God if He didn't, would He?"

"Maybe he's not omniscient," was her counter.

"That's blasphemy."

"To say that God has flaws?"

"He doesn't."

"Or so you claim. For why would you worship a flawed being?" A pause. A tilt of the head. "What's it like, mouse? To worship Diety? I've never worshiped anything before," she said. "What's it like?"

Emerson, at first, wasn't going to respond. He thought she was goading him. But there was a genuine curiosity in her tone. And, after a few seconds, he replied, softly, "It's ... not something I can, uh ... I just don't really think about what it's like."

"What's it give you, then?"

That was easier to answer. "Peace. Comfort. Hope. Joy and direction. Purpose and meaning."

"And you can't get these things from what you see? The world around you? Yourself?"

"In little slivers. Little slices. And that's not enough. Through my faith, in God ... I get those things," he whispered, "in bulk."

The Arctic fox considered this. Was quiet for a moment. "Predators do not confront frailty," she whispered, "very well." A pause. "I am injured. I am dying, and ... I do not know what to do."

Emerson looked to her. Swallowed.

"In moments like these, in a moment," she whispered, giving a whimper of pain, "like this, I ... I realize how foolish it is that I have nothing to fall back on. What am I to do in such a dire hour? Recite the anthem of my government? Sing a song? At the muzzle of death, logic fails, and ... and ... " She gritted her teeth. The pain getting worse. She felt a bit light-headed. " ... trauma. You said I was traumatized. Perhaps I was. I looked into his eyes," she said, of the fur she'd escaped from, "and what I saw? It scared me. I think," she breathed, "it was insanity." A pause. And a swallow. She closed her eyes and shook her head. And, eyes opening, she looked to Emerson. "In the face of trauma, the only thing that could truly offer comfort ... must be prayer. Must be God. Anthems, pledges? Hollow things ... no, when in mourning, only religion can truly soothe you. Because, in the darkness, nothing else makes sense. Nothing else has an eternal light."

The mouse, whiskers twitching, gave a tiny nod. "Yes," he whispered, nodding, agreeing wholeheartedly.

A tiny laugh from her. "Listen to me. I never thought I'd be saying stuff like this. I think I must be ... delusional," she decided. "I've lost too much blood." A nod. "That must be it. Or, else, you are contagious. They say that mouses are contagious. I think they were referring to your 'cuteness,' but ... " She didn't finish the thought. She just let it hang. Before picking back up with. "Prayer. In times like these, the soul can't be healed by anything but prayer." A pause. "But I can't pray, mouse. I've never done so, and ... and it's too late," she panted, "to start now."

"It's never too late," Emerson whispered, imploring with her.

"I am stubborn. I am," she declared, "a predator, and I am stubborn. And I cannot change my ways in the matter of minutes. It is too late for me."

"It's not," the mouse squeaked.

"You want to save my soul, is that it? You want me to go to heaven? Why? I hurt you. I was going to rape you. I am an Arctic fox, a former enemy to your snow rabbit friends ... and an enemy, even, to you. Simply by being a predator, I am your foe, and ... why," she breathed, "would you wish to ... "

" ... do I need a reason?"

"Yes. In my eyes? Yes ... "

A pause. And a breath. "Sometimes, reasons are feelings. And not words. I can't tell you ... why I wish for your soul to be saved. But I do. Life is precious. As a Christian, the Lord teaches me to value all life, even ... even if ... you can pray," he said, returning to that. "I know you can. Ask Him to forgive you. Commit your soul to ... "

" ... my soul," the Arctic fox stated, "is committed to nothing. To no one. I casually breed, remember? I don't commit my heart to anyone. So, why," she pressed, "would I be willing to commit my soul to anyone, either? Be it fur or Deity?"

A sigh from him, whiskers twitching. "You said it yourself. In times such as these, all fails. But prayer? God? Faith? It doesn't fail you."

"Maybe not. But I," she replied pointedly, "fail it."

Emerson was quiet at this.

"I didn't think this through. I ... I should've," she rasped, "thought this through. My injuries clouded my mind. I'm dying," she breathed. "I ... I will spare your life. You've given me someone to talk to. Given me," she said, "things to think about." Her eyes closed. Her muscles weakening. The phase pistol that was in her clutches slipped out, clattering to the rocky cave-floor. A whine. "I ... I, uh ... my body. Vaporize it."

"What?" was the horrified squeak.

"Use my phase pistol."

A fervent shake of the head. "I'll bury you," he insisted, "but I won't vaporize you."

"Does it matter? Does the body matter?"

"I'll bury you," was all the mouse said.

"I don't want to be buried on this rock!"

"Then I'll ... I'll have your body taken," the mouse said, starting to get emotional. As mouses were prone to be. "I'll have you taken back to the ship, put in stasis, and ... next time we're close to your world, we'll bury you there."

"My world," the Arctic fox replied, with a deep sadness, "no longer exists. It was destroyed. When the wasps murdered our sun. Our new home?" A shake of the head. "I was not born there. My species has no history there. Millenia of culture ... gone. Literature, art, architecture? Yes, we had these things, mouse. Even us. Even predators. A rich culture. But it's gone." A breath. "The new world is a blank slate. No scent. No nothing. I do not want to be buried on a ball of nothing."

"Yet you're willing to die into nothingness," the mouse whispered, "by not committing your soul to Christ? Why would you not WANT to go to heaven? Why ... "

" ... do you not understand the predatory mind, mouse? Isn't it obvious? My idea of pleasure is DEATH. Drawing blood, hunting, killing. My heaven," she breathed, "is death ... not life, mortal or eternal. Not peace, forgiveness, or mercy. But death. I hunt. I kill. And the ultimate rest for me? Is to be entirely snuffed out in return."

Emerson's whiskers twitched.

"I want your faith. Right now, I ... I believe," she breathed, "it would help, but ... I'm not built for it. You are truly lucky," she said, and then stopped. "Blessed," she corrected. "You are truly blessed that you are."

The mouse's eyes watered. "That's not a reason. Because you're a predator, you can't have faith? Because you have traits that ... no, that's not a reason. That's an excuse," he told her. "I'm sick of predators, sick of ... everyone," he squeaked, voice raising, "making excuses for their faithlessness! They try to pass off those excuses as reasons, but who are they kidding? Themselves? Me? God? They're not kidding anyone. And ... " A heavy sigh, and a shake of the head. He swallowed. "Faith is not for the timid. It takes a lot more courage to believe in something ... than it does to believe in nothing. Believing in nothing is an act of cowardice."

The Arctic fox, eyes closed, whispered weakly, "Well-spoken ... mouse. True words, but ... I simply do not care. I crave nothingness."

Emerson was crying, now. "No. No, you don't ... please, ask Jesus into your heart. Pray to God. Ask him ... "

" ... why," she whispered, slumping a bit, "do you care about my soul? I'm a murderer. And a hundred other horrible things. You have no idea, mouse, what I've done in my lifetime ... "

" ... I don't ... just ASK him, please. Please," the mouse pleaded.

A shake of the head. "No."

Tears were streaming down Emerson's cheeks. "Am I failure, then? In my faith? That I can't ... that I can't," he stammered, "be a convincing witness to the Light? That I can't help save anybody? I want to help you!"

"Don't blame my damnation on yourself, mouse. You did," she breathed, "all you could ... God will be very pleased with you for that. As you said, earlier: we have free will. I choose damnation, because I wish to be damned. I do not deserve anything more. Lament better souls than mine. But do not lament me. I'm not worthy of being saved."

A sniffle. "It's not about worthiness. It's about WILLINGNESS to ... "

" ... let me die, mouse! Put aside your notion that all life is precious. Some life? Is ugly. Mine ... so, let me die. Let me shuffle out with no hope of eternity."

Emerson went quiet, sniffling. Crying and bleeding. And he sniffled again, wiping his paw across his nose, whiskers twitching. "I can ... I can scurry for help. If you let me go, I can ... our doctor ... "

" ... it's too late for that," was the barely-audible response. "I told you: I didn't think this through. Anyway, it's ... it was enlightening," she said, "talking with you. And though my intentions toward you were initially evil, I ... I am glad I did not carry them through." A sincere pause. "I would not have wished to rob you of your child-like innocence."

Emerson looked away, biting his lip. Both furious at the fox for her original intent to rape him. And saddened by her unwillingness to allow her soul to be saved. Though, like she said, it wasn't his fault. But, still, he felt he should've tried harder to convince her. He could've said more. Said things differently.

"I ... you ... you wanted," the Arctic fox rasped, "to know who the 'he' was? You ... still want," she breathed, fading away, "to know?"

A sniffle. "I, uh ... sure. I guess. I ... "

A gesture of her paw, beckoning him closer.

Emerson crawled forward, heart beating in his ears.

And, with her dying breath, the Arctic fox whispered out, "K-Ka ... almbach."

It was an hour later, back on Yellowknife.

"How is he?" Graham asked, in sickbay. Looking to Aspera.

The black-and-white warbler, clacking her beak a bit, gave a few trilling sounds. "He'll be fine. I did some light surgery. He got his head gashed up pretty good, but ... a dermal regenerator took away all evidence of that. And Azalea donated some blood to help replace all that he'd lost, so ... he'll need to stay in here for a day. I want to keep him on a bio-bed. But he'll be awake and alert in a few hours. I just want to keep him for observation. Just to make sure."

The snow rabbit nodded. "Azalea?"

"Sleeping on the bio-bed next to him," the bird said, nodding at the other side of the room. "She was worried that ... well, she's missing her shift, but ... "

" ... tell her she can have the day off. When," Graham added, "she wakes."

A nod from her. "Now, uh, if you'll excuse me ... I gotta check a few things." And the warbler flitted away.

Graham, taking a breath, looked over at the two mouses. One unconscious due to injury. And the other because of anxiety and tiredness. The snow rabbit took a slow breath. He felt very much responsible for those two. Mouses were very vulnerable, delicate creatures. Very dependent. Unlike snow rabbits, who were very independent. No, mouses needed to be cradled and cared for. Or they would wither. And, as their Captain, he felt it his responsibility to keep them safe.

He remembered, before the short-lived border war with the Federation, how Emerson had come into his office. How the mouse had ended up sobbing, hugging at Graham. How he had hugged the mouse back, reassuring him, calming him down. How, afterwards, he'd felt a great sense of satisfaction. For he didn't want to be one of those captains that kept his crew at arm's length. He wanted them to know that he was here for them. That they could count on him. He wanted to be a light in their lives.

A swish.

The snow rabbit turned, tall, slender ears twiddling.

"They okay?" asked Talkeetna, as she padded into sickbay, her bare foot-paws making gentle sounds on the carpet. The door swished shut behind her. And her bushy, luxurious tail flagged about.

"They are both fine," Graham replied, nodding lightly.

"I feel, like ... I know this might sound silly. But I almost feel like they're my little siblings. You know? That I'm responsible for them. That if anybody picks on them ... I should be there, stepping in for them. That if they wake up crying in the middle of the night, I should wipe their tears away."

"I was just thinking the very same thing," the snow rabbit replied, in his calm, logical tone.

"Mouses and their cuteness. And their ... mousey-ness, hmm?" A pause. "But, then, when you have a crew ... they're more than a crew. They're your family. Over time, they come to be your family," the red squirrel whispered, looking to Graham. Her ship, Reverie, was long gone. She was no longer a captain. But, instead, his first officer. Sub-commander, as the rank was called in the snow rabbit High Command. But, often, it was hard to look upon Talkeetna as being a subordinate. Her overall experience was very much equal to his own (though Graham had far more combat experience). As was her insight into command. He'd come to rely upon her a great deal.

"Is there something wrong?" Graham finally asked.

A sigh from her, her angular ears cocked atop her head. She looked about the room, at all the equipment and screens in the sickbay. Her nose sniffing the air. That slightly-sterile smell. And the smell of medicines and very clean sheets. "When we found him, before he passed out ... "

" ... yes, Antioch told me. The Arctic fox claimed she stumbled across a mysterious figure." They had buried the Arctic fox outside of the cave. There had been no ceremony. Just a burial.

A nod. "Kalmbach. Is what she said."

"There are billions upon billions of furs in the galaxy. There is bound to be more than one Kalmbach," was Graham's logical deduction, his bobtail flickering. "To assume that this 'Kalmbach' is automatically the captain of the vanished Illustrious is ... "

" ... alright, so ... look, logically? It could be someone else. But realistically? We both know that the Illustrious was destroyed."

"Presumably."

"And that Kalmbach is still alive."

"Presumably," was the repeat.

"And that he has something to do with this 'ghost ship'."

A tilt of his head. And Graham said, once more, "Presumably."

The red squirrel gave a small, defeated smile. Her whiskers twitched and her angular ears cocked atop her head. "I guess we don't know very much at all, do we?"

"We do not," Graham replied, eye-smiling. And he let out a breath through his cool, black nose, looking around, and then back to Talkeetna. "We are running entirely on speculation. All we know, concretely, is that the deceased Arctic fox had contact with a fur named Kalmbach at some point in the recent past. Beyond that?" He trailed.

Talkeetna nodded. "Well, I'll, uh ... tell Antioch to keep his sensors peeled. Just in case."

"And I shall tell Ada to keep her ears glued to any 'ghost ship' references that might surface on the daily comm chatter."

The red squirrel nodded, lingering.

"Was there anything else?" Graham asked, gently. His tone warm (as warm as a snow rabbit's tone could be, which was still a bit aloof).

Talkeetna thought for a moment. But then shook her head. "Not really, no. I just ... a rogue captain? With a ship the size of a small city? Loose in snow rabbit space? I mean, we were able to ignore that for a good while. At least," she added, "when we thought he was on our side. But now? I'm beginning to worry."

"Rodents are prone to worry," Graham observed.

"True. But are you telling me that you're not concerned?"

Graham couldn't respond to that.

And Talkeetna just nodded. "Thought so," she whispered, sighing through her sniff-twitching nose. Her tail flagged.

"Talkeetna," the Captain said, quietly. "I have fought against predators my entire life ... until recently. If pressed to do so again, even if versus a single snow leopard?" He turned his head a bit, ice-blue eyes locking to her own eyes. "I will not back down."

"I believe you," the red squirrel said, almost inaudibly. And a small, gentle smile. "I just don't want it to have to come to that. I've had enough interstellar fighting to last a lifetime."

"As have I. I suppose all we can do," he said, logically, "is pray."

"I plan on it." A head-tilt from her, smiling.

And he tilted his head back, politely reciprocating. "Are you ready for your lunch break?" he asked her.

"It's not time for ... "

" ... you may take your lunch break early. Antioch, too. Go and enjoy yourselves."

She beamed, nodding. "Thanks. Thank you ... "

"You are most welcome," he replied, nodding, eye-smiling.

And the red squirrel padded, in her bare foot-paws, bushy tail arched prettily behind her, to the sickbay doors. Which swished open with a cool, soothing sound. And she stopped in the doorway, turning. "What about you? You and Ada? You deserve an early lunch break ... "

Looking to his first officer (and his close friend), he replied, "I will take one, as well. I just ... need to watch our mouses for a few minutes more."

A smile, and a nod. "I understand," Talkeetna said, and she moved out of the doorway, into the corridor. The doors swishing shut behind her.

And Graham padded closer to the bio-beds. Both of the mouses asleep. And, very gently, he said (in his calm, logical voice), "I will protect you both. As your Captain, I promise you that."

Their whiskers twitched in their sleep. Their noses sniffling slightly.

And he eye-smiled. "God bless you, my mouses. Sleep well." And, with that, he sighed, turning to leave sickbay. A bit of a hop in his strong, loping rabbit legs. Oh, a bit of a hop in his step. For he was going to get Ada and have a most enjoyable lunch. A most enjoyable lunch, indeed.