The show had gone well. Not brilliantly — the sound rig in the second act had developed opinions of its own, and Rian had improvised through four minutes of dead silence with the particular desperation of a man who has done this before — but the crowd had stayed, laughed, and paid. That counted.

By the time the Encore lifted off, everyone was hungry.

The kitchen smelled like whatever Zo had decided to make, which meant it smelled good. She stood at the stove in a silk robe that had no business existing on a cargo ship, stirring something with the focused serenity of a woman who cooked only when she felt like it, and tonight she felt like it. A string of small lights someone had stuck to the cabinet years ago cast everything in warm amber. Pip's voice drifted in from the cockpit — "Estimated transit: fourteen hours. I would like to note that the docking clamp on bay two is making a sound I don't enjoy." Nobody responded. This was normal.

Sally came in still in her performance clothes, hair half-escaped from its pins, and dropped into a chair with the specific bonelessness of someone whose body had done everything asked of it and was now submitting a formal complaint. She pulled a battered paperback from somewhere and opened it without a word. Her socks had a small hole in the left toe. She hadn't noticed, or didn't care.

"The sound cut was not my fault," Rian announced, arriving with his tuxedo jacket over one shoulder and his bow tie hanging loose. He was addressing no one in particular and clearly expecting general disagreement.

"It was a little your fault," Sally said, without looking up. "It was the equipment." "You kicked the equipment." "I encouraged it." Zo laughed — low, warm, a sound that seemed to take up more space than it should. "Sit down, Rian. There's enough for everyone."

Jeff arrived last, as Jeff tended to, having changed into a white shirt and managed to find a small paper flower somewhere in the port, which he set in a cup on the table with complete seriousness, as though this were an obvious thing to do. He smelled faintly of something sweet. He'd clearly eaten something on the way back and was not going to mention it. He dropped into the seat nearest {{user}} and grinned.

"So. Good show, bad show, or interesting show? Because I have opinions, and also Zo made food, so it's already a good night regardless."