An alarm awoke him.

Not his daily alarm. An emergency alarm.

Osterman gasped, and gripped the sheet as he sat up, searching the room with bleary eyes for the source of the alarm.

Hope Runt's alright...

In the dim, compact captain's bunk, the glow of a datapad was the only thing providing light. Osterman reached across his tangled sheets and grabbed the pad, starting to sit up.

A message flashed in bold red across the screen, along with an urgent alert.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and looked at the message.

Osterman-

We just received a message from Runt on an encrypted channel. He sent us the datapack from his contact, as well as a message about the resupply chain. Very urgent.

-Cameron

Osterman sighed, and glanced at the clock in the upper right hand of the datapad.

He'd gotten a little over five hours of sleep.

It'll have to do. He thought, flipping the covers back. He smacked the light switch, and started searching for his uniform...

~

The bridge was as busy as it had ever been. With multiple shifts and watches running at any given second, the bridge and all other systems were manned with fresh personnel at all times. Only Osterman, and a few other high-ranking positions, were denied their rest as the situation evolved.

It wasn't much worse than working overtime, though. And this... this was for a better cause that simple business. This was for Socotra. This was for Pathmos.

This was for Runt.

Osterman pressed his cap on as he marched to the center of the bridge, clearing his throat to get Cameron's attention while his assistant worked on a control surface. The rest of the staff continued working, several of them nodding to him or saluting as he walked down the broad, smooth surface of the control floor.

"Cameron, I got your message. Fill me in." he said, marching up and leaning on the commander's chair.

His aide glanced away from the control surface, and towards Osterman, as he worked.

"We got a message from Runt. The situation has turned south. He also sent the data from his contact. I'm contacting the heads of intelligence from Pathmos and Imbra now."

Osterman felt a jolt in his stomach. A touch of worry mixed in with the before-breakfast hunger to renew the ache of nausea he'd been battling since the attack. He cleared his throat, and glanced across the bridge in search of something to eat...

To no avail.

"What's gone wrong?" He asked, already licking his lips.

Osterman looked out of the massive glass panel before him as he listened.

"He gave us information about the vessel he's on." Cameron said. "He's got pretty good evidence that it's being captained by the MLA. He's concerned that there may be more operatives onboard."

Osterman's appetite evaporated. In one heartbeat, his mouth went dry and thoughts of food left his mind. He needed coffee, aspirin, and maybe something solid to hold it all down.

The last thing Runt needed as more hazards. He was already in deep enough. And with rescue being days away...

"This is not turning out well." He mumbled.

He glanced at Cameron.

"Did he say anything about his next move?"

Cameron nodded.

"He said he was going to tap into the ship's navigation computer and flight recorders, and pull the data. He's hoping to uncover something that'll give us a pattern to go off of with the MLA resupply chain."

Osterman grit his teeth.

He'd wanted Runt to review some data, and give them what he could find. His analysis, as always, was useful. Deeply so. Moreover, keeping Runt busy with analysis and other vital projects tended to keep him out of trouble. The more time he spent looking over data and tapping into remote systems discreetly, the less time he could spend being out and about, getting spotted and stalked. He'd expected Runt to spend the rest of his flight home picking apart a riddle he wasn't really sure if they could solve.

He had not expected him to start playing around in the guts of a ship piloted by the terrorists.

Things had not improved much from New Medina. Runt and Quixxa just bred trouble.

He glanced at Cameron.

"Do we have any ships closer that could intercept and pick Runt up?"

Cameron shook his head.

"I've checked that a dozen times. There are no friendly ships nearby. The best we can do is getting a few frigates to Ship 7 at about the same time the Ghost arrives."

Osterman chewed the inside of his cheek. "Make that happen then. And let's keep looking for solutions. Can they detach from the freighter and pilot the Rust to a safe point?"

Cameron shook his head.

"No. aside from being risky, it's very conspicuous, and further, they'd run out of fuel quickly. That old Tug hasn't been fully refueled recently. It's only designed for atmosphere runs, not long distance travel."

Ideas ran through his head.

"What about just drifting? Selective burns to keep them on course, and a later arrival?"

Cameron shrugged.

"They'd arrive a few weeks late."

Osterman winced. That was too long.

"There's got to be some way." He said.

"The only thing I've come up with is asking the Alliance." Cameron said with a shrug. "But, I don't think they're our friends based on that waiver they pulled from Runt."

Osterman felt another twist in his stomach.

He hoped it wasn't an ulcer. Even if it was, it wouldn't be the first one the Alliance, or New Medina, had given him.

He sighed at length, and waved to get the attention of one of the marines on duty on the bridge.

As the soldier left his post and strode towards the owner of Obsidian, Carl slowly made fists and relaxed them, still trying to wake up. Still trying to recover from the blow the MLA had dealt. Still trying to understand why the Alliance had abandoned a good man to the wolves and weasels on that dusty rock.

All of it sat poorly. And he hadn't had a moment to process it all. In the world of business, he moved from deal to deal, project to project, and plan to plan as if he was doing little more than putting on a new hat. Even running the covert operations side of Obsidian, and working with governments, was little more than another hat to wear.

But this...

This one was different.

Maybe it was the wound in his heart from the attack just perpetrated on his world, his people, his friend and his employees.

Maybe it was the overwhelming pressure of manning one of the largest fighting forces in the system.

Or maybe...

Maybe...

If he was being honest, maybe it was fear. Plain and simple.

Not for his world or Obsidian, thought plenty of antacids had met their demise at his hands thanks to the worries of his empire.

No, it was fear that he was going to lose Runt.

He was tempted to say that the little Springer just reminded Carl of himself. Smart, ambitious, perhaps just a little cocky. He knew that man saw himself as a blooming hero, and Osterman wanted to nurture that. Runt did remind him of his younger years, when he'd started Obsidian to help his nation, and to make a buck doing it. He was tempted to simply write it off as nothing more than a reminder.

But Runt was so much more than a reminder.

Osterman exhaled and let his head drop a little as the marine approached.

Runt wasn't a reminder of a time past. Nor was he a vanguard of the future. He was that, but to reduce him to only that was insulting.

Carl felt a pang.

One of regret.

He never should have let Runt go to New Medina.

He never should have allowed it, as much as they both knew Runt could handle the stress and do good there. He never should have encouraged Runt to follow the same path he had. He certainly never should have let go.

Not just of a good employee, a future captain, and an honorable man, but of what Runt was to Osterman.

A friend.

In the time Runt had spent on Pathmos, among the Obsidian employees, something about him had caught Osterman's eye.

No, his heart.

Runt had made friends as easily as Osterman had made money. And Osterman hadn't been immune to it. Out among his employees as often as he was, Osterman encountered the Springer several times only to find himself enjoying his time with Runt as much as he did any other time he could think of. He'd slowly, methodically started grooming the Springer into more and more commanding roles, only to watch Runt rise faster than he could be promoted.

Runt always aimed for more, always hoping to help, and to spread his wings a little wider, despite having a miniature wingspan. That golden heart beat out of his chest every single day, and Osterman had silently made up his mind that he would rather have Runt's heart of gold than Obsidian's crown of gold.

He wanted Runt's company.

He wanted a friend.

There was no lack of companionship, and no lack of company in Obsidian. Osterman's home and hearth were always warm with extended family, though he had little left of his own. His acquaintances were many.

But his friends?

He'd found few. Most Osterman dealt with were bureaucrats, or profiteers. Few poured out their souls for their nations and their fellow citizens. Those who did were often out of reach, for those few bold, caring souls tended to rise to the top, and a friendship across gigantic, headache-inducing corporations was nearly impossible in Socotra. Runt, however, was close at hand. He was near enough that Osterman could imagine him as something more than just an employee he paid and said a prayer for. He could be a friend. A confidant. A new seat at the Osterman table during holidays, perhaps.

It wasn't that Runt reminded him of a younger Carl Osterman.

It was that Runt, with his heart of gold and sad, rainy-day eyes, saw the same truth as Osterman.

Osterman had built everything for Pathmos, for his employees, for Obsidian herself. He'd poured out the best years of his life to build a corporation that protected, paid, and prospered half a solar system.

Runt poured out his life for anyone he could get his hands on, even criminals like Quixxa. Even stress-filled business magnates like Carl Osterman.

And Osterman...

He was willing to pour out his resources, his blood, sweat, tears, and cold hard cash to bring back a friend who perhaps understood.

Someone else who got it.

Someone, anyone, who understood that it wasn't about the money.

It was about the people.

And once he was back on Pathmos, Osterman had no intention of letting such a heart of gold fall back into harm's way.

The marine arrived in front of Osterman just as the business mogul's thoughts cleared, and he lifted his eyes to the stars.

"What can I do for you sir?" The marine asked.

"Please get a bottle of aspirin up here, and something for the bridge crew to eat. Snacks should be sufficient for alertness."

The marine saluted.

"Yes sir, I'll contact the quartermaster sir."

With that, he turned to carry out his orders.

Osterman looked at his aide.

"Cameron, please set up a call to the security head on Vostograd. I'm going to see if we can get the Alliance to help us out. Maybe they'll fire up the Polaris if we push hard enough."

Cameron nodded.

"I'll arrange the call." He said, swiping the control surface. "Speaking of calls, Imbra and Pathmos just hopped on the communication channel. Are you ready?"

Osterman sighed, and looked towards the distant star of Socotra.

He hoped Runt was weathering all of it well.

He was more than the hope for a system.

He was a friend.

Whether he knew it or not.

Osterman stood up straight, and took off his cap.

"I'm ready. Let's bring him home."

~

Osterman sipped another mouthful of hot, bad coffee from a plain mug as the heads of a few intelligence agencies finished up the holographic meeting laid out in the comms room before him. He and Cameron had just forwarded Runt and Quix's data. Imbra and Pathmos were delighted to see the information, and had promised results, along with actionable Intel, within hours. Osterman had smugly nodded most of the time.

He knew Runt would come through.

He was even starting to trust his contact, Quix. They seemed to make a good team.

His attention returned to the off-colored holograms as one of the heads of an agency started to wrap up the call.

"Thank you, Mr. Osterman. Tell your contacts they've done great work. Our analysts will have this picked apart soon enough. It looks like we've placed our trust in good hands."

The Obsidian CEO just smiled.

"I'll let them know you're pleased."

The head of Imbra's intelligence agency chimed in.

"I'd like to thank them in person. They've done more good than most."

Osterman gestured. "I think that can be arranged. Once they've arrived and been debriefed, we can arrange a meeting."

The head of intelligence chuckled. "Let's focus on getting them here first. The system's a mess. There's no guarantees on safe passage."

Osterman shrugged.

"Obsidian is doing all we can. Is there any other news I should be aware of?"

"Nothing specifically." He replied. "MLA movements have increased, but we're already putting together a counter-strike. All our orbital and station weapons platforms are operational too. Just buckle up. Once we get a list put together, we're going after a broad spectrum of targets. That could be a day or two away."

Osterman nodded.

"What about the Alliance? Are they offering any help yet?"

"Nothing yet."

Osterman nodded.

"I'll call Vostograd, see what they can do." He said, a bit unhappy. He'd already scheduled the meeting before the call with Imbra and Pathmos, but he wasn't looking forward to it any more than a trip to the dentist.

The suited intelligence head across the table from Osterman gave a shrug.

"Don't hold your breath. If you need anything else from Imbra, just contact us. I'll be up all night."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." Osterman said.

The head gave a firm nod, and put his hand on the disconnect button. "Thank you again for the data. Give your contacts our best. Over and out, Mr. Osterman."

"Over and out."

The hologram went dark.

And with it, Osterman's mood darkened.

He knew what his next call was likely to hold. Stonewalling, red tape, and a general insult to Runt, Pathmos, and freedom in Socotra in the name of peace with New Medina, that tumor that orbited a little closer to the grand blue sun.

He was done with the politics.

He suspected most in the alliance were as well. There was no doubt in his mind that were it up to the admiral aboard the Polaris, and others, then Alliance warships would cut a swath of annihilation right to the ground on New Medina, and end the war fast.

But he also knew how many politicians needed their quiet little jobs filing paperwork, and how quickly those jobs evaporated in the face of railgun fire.

With a huff, Osterman keyed in the code for the right office, and starting ringing through to the station as he finished off a chewy fruit bar and picked the nuts out of a trail mix he'd selected. He spoke to a few lower-level officials, and eventually managed to get an audience with the man he needed.

The Station Defense Secretary.

The suited human glitched a few times as the hologram caught up with the faster-than-light communications, but eventually settled into a weary, aloof slump across the table from Osterman. He cast a weary glance down the table at Carl, seeming to look over his glasses, and ask what is it this time?

"Mr. Secretary." Osterman said. "Good to see you."

"What's this call about Mr. Osterman?" the man asked, shifting his weight back into his holographic seat.

Osterman wanted to squint. He restrained himself.

"I called about the status of one of our citizens." He said. "Runt. I'm sure you know who I'm referring to. Has the Alliance decided to extract him from New Medina, or honor his waiver?"

The diplomat sighed, and leaned one forearm on his desk as he peered at Osterman with an incredulous look.

"Mr. Osterman, you're not serious. We've got major security issues across the system, and the whole planet of New Medina is in a sandstorm, along with riots. We have bigger headaches to worry about than one man."

Osterman suppressed the jolt of anger he felt.

"You know very well how valuable he is."

"He is not worth a war, Osterman."

Osterman snorted.

He was worth launching this destroyer early for.

He was worth a hunter-killer's attention.

He was certainly worth a few minutes of this stuffed suit's time.

But, he also knew that asking the Alliance to go and get Runt was no use. Further, if they decided to play a dirty game and try to make good with New Medina, telling them that he was off-world would end up playing to their disadvantage.

Osterman decided to test their knowledge, and their intentions.

"Well, at least answer me this." Osterman said. "Once that sandstorm clears, I'm going to have Obsidian's layers piling lawsuits and pressure on the government there faster than you can believe. If he gets out on bail, or something like it, is he welcome at an Alliance embassy?"

The secretary folded his hands.

"New Medina is a sovereign state, with laws that must be abided by. We may turn him over for indictment, or we may not. But either way, we are required to honor the laws of other nations."

Osterman shook his head slowly.

"You're the Northern Alliance. You're not required to do anything for anyone. As far as this system is concerned, you make the rules. So why are you siding with a tyrannical regime that kills dissidents, gives state-funding to terrorists, and is going to kill a citizen of another world for self-defense?"

The security manager jogged his eyebrow.

"The punishment would not be death, you and I both know that."

Osterman leaned in.

"If he was given to New Medina, you and I both know what'd happen. And you and I both know that would kill him. It's a violation of Universal Rights, and, it's illegal on both his world of origin and Pathmos."

"New Medina doesn't recognize Universal Rights, and we're in no position to enforce them on another nation."

Osterman felt an icy shiver run up his spine.

"Then why call them universal? How about Convenient Right?"

"There's no need to get snide, Mr. Osterman."

Carl snorted.

"I take it we shouldn't count on Alliance support once the sandstorm clears?"

The secretary shook his head.

"The Alliance is prepared to offer support to her allies at any time, but we can't-"

"Are you willing," Osterman cut in, "To give Runt his waiver back, and facilitate his evacuation?"

The Station Security Secretary stopped, and squinted a little.

"I can't authorize that."

Carl leaned back in his seat and sighed. He put his hand on the disconnect button.

"I guess we're done here."

Click.

A wave of heat and irritation washed over Carl's skin as he drummed his fingers on the desktop. He stared ahead from