Starflight (14 page)

I
n the weeks that followed, Solara settled into an unspoken cease-fire with Doran, neither hostile nor friendly. They hadn’t shared any more secrets since the day she showed him her tattoos, but he’d stopped calling her a felon. And while she still coerced him into galley cleanup and cargo loading, it was only in the interest of improving their standing with the crew, not out of spite.

Well, okay. Maybe a
teensy
bit out of spite.

She couldn’t deny the tingle of satisfaction that came from watching Doran get his hands dirty. With each new chore, his fingernails lost a little more of their sheen. A few blisters on his palms had hardened into calluses, and in her opinion, that was far more attractive on a guy than baby-soft skin.

So really, she was doing him a favor.

“You missed a spot,” she told him, pointing at a patch of mildew encircling the bathroom drain. The ship’s recycled air was so dry that only the hardiest molds took root, making them nearly indestructible. “That’s going to take some serious elbow grease.”

Doran took a break from his work to sit back against the wall. He dragged an arm across his sweaty forehead and locked those indigo eyes on her, the heat of physical labor glowing brightly behind his gaze. He released a tired chuckle that lifted one corner of his lips, and for a split second, a tiny pair of angel wings fluttered behind Solara’s navel.

She rubbed a hand over her stomach to erase the sensation. She was probably just excited about shower day. Nothing more than that.

“Feel free to show me how it’s done,” he told her.

“Nice try.” She slung her towel over the nearest stall and hooked her caddy of toiletries to the showerhead. “I spent all day turning the engine inside out to find the reason for that screeching sound.” With no luck. “This shower has my name on it.”

“We paid ten thousand fuel chips for this trip,” he said, tossing aside his scrub brush. “And by
we
, I really mean
I
.”

“So?”

“So are you sure all this extra work is making a difference?”

“Of course,” Solara told him while pulling a hairpin free. “It’s endearing us to the crew.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” he said. “The captain’s getting free labor, and he still won’t take me to Obsidian.”

She pointed her hairpin at him. “Not with that attitude, he won’t.”

“
Psh
,” Doran scoffed. “I doubt a few smiles will change anything.” In demonstration, he flashed his teeth and used both hands to frame a grin. “Not even on this pretty face.”

Solara laughed with her whole belly. Lame as it was, that might’ve been the first joke she’d ever heard Doran tell. “Patience, my attractive friend. I’ll get you to Obsidian.”

Still smiling, he arched a brow. “I thought we weren’t friends.”

“We’re not.”

“Then what are we?”

“You want a label?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

She thought about it while combing out her hair. They’d attended the same academy, but the word
classmates
implied a certain level of camaraderie that didn’t apply to the boy who’d once uploaded a picture of her stained coveralls to his SnapIt account to prove she’d worn the same pair twice in a row. Last month she had considered Doran an enemy, but that didn’t apply, either. They were in uncharted territory now, feeling their way one day at a time.

“Cohorts,” she finally decided. “That’s how the Enforcers would classify us.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Cohorts. That sounds sketchy.”

“If the shoe fits…”

“Or the gloves, as it were,” he said, nodding at her hands. “I was right. You do shower with them on.”

That wasn’t true and he knew it, so she didn’t bother with a reply.

“You should stop wearing them. Nobody here cares about your markings. By hiding them, you’re giving the ink too much power.”

“Oh, so you’re a therapist now?” she asked.

“It’s just common sense.” Abruptly, his lips pulled into a frown, and he stared at his own knuckles in silence. A shadow passed over his face, making Solara wonder what he was thinking. “Believe me,” he muttered. “If I can stand to look at your ink, then so can you.”

If he could
stand
to look at her?

Her shoulders rounded as she shrank into herself, stung more than she wanted to admit by the careless words. “It’s like English is your second language,” she said. “And your native tongue is Jackass.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

She fisted her gloved hands until the leather creaked, but it didn’t stop the ache growing inside her chest. She shouldn’t have shared her story with him. It hadn’t changed anything. All she’d done was give him the power to hurt her. “Should I be flattered that the Great Doran Spaulding can bring himself to look upon my tattoos?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Just get out,” she said, jabbing a finger at the door. “You’re not going to ruin my shower the way you ruin everything else.”

He shook his head in contempt and pushed to standing. As he passed by, he mumbled, “I don’t know why I bother trying.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” she said. “I’m downgrading you from cohort to accessory.”

“You can kiss my accessory.”

“In your dreams!”

The washroom door slammed shut, but the argument wasn’t over. At least not in Solara’s head. She cursed Doran while yanking off her shirt and throwing it against the wall. Then she did the same with her clothes and boots until she stood naked in nothing but her fingerless gloves. She studied the worn leather and chewed her bottom lip before tearing the casings off and tossing them onto the pile. As much as she wanted to banish his voice, she couldn’t help wondering if he was right.

Had she given the ink too much power?

Standing beneath a steaming spray of water, she used one hand to wet her hair while holding up the other for inspection. Soon the heat reddened her skin and reminded her of sentencing day, when the Enforcers had marked her. The law entitled her to topical painkiller, but that hadn’t stopped her knuckles from swelling too large to fit inside her gloves. She’d returned to the group home with no way to hide her shame. The other orphans had known better than to ask questions, but they’d whispered when her back was turned. Even worse was knowing how deeply she’d disappointed Sister Agnes, who’d blamed herself for teaching Solara mechanics in the first place. She would never forget the humiliation of wearing her mistakes on both hands like a flashing beacon for the whole world to see.

As punishments went, this one was effective—with plenty of power all its own.

“Screw you, Doran,” she muttered under her breath. As usual, he didn’t know his ass from his elbow.

She squeezed a dollop of shampoo into her palm, but before she had a chance to put it in her hair, her body lurched forward and she hit the stall face-first. A jolt of pain exploded behind her right cheekbone, replaced by the sharp ache of her backside suddenly meeting the floor. The violence was over as quickly as it had begun, and in the span of two heartbeats, she was sitting on the wet tile, panting in shock.

A metallic taste crossed her lips, and she dabbed her cheek to find it bleeding. She crawled back to the shower and turned off the water, then grabbed her towel. By the time she wrapped it snugly around her dripping body, her brain had recovered enough to process what’d happened. Because there was no noise of impact, the inertia that had catapulted her into the wall must’ve been caused by a figurative slamming of the brakes. Which could only mean one thing.

The accelerator had come loose again.

She tugged on her clothes while muttering every curse in her vocabulary. When she reached the engine room, her right eye was swollen shut. The good news was that it only took one eye to diagnose the problem. The bad news was she couldn’t do a thing to fix it.

“The accelerator’s fine,” she called toward the noise of approaching footsteps. “But your propellant cell sprang a leak. You need a new one.”

Renny appeared beside her, leaning in to look at the lime-green ooze fizzing and bubbling on the engine room floor. The substance’s bark was louder than its bite. Once exposed to oxygen, propellant lost its combustive properties—a safety feature to keep the ship from exploding. Each sizzling pop faded softer than the last, and within seconds, it was nothing more than a placid puddle of goo.

“Can we scoop it up and put it back inside?” Renny asked.

Solara shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Where are we going to get a new—” He cut off, eyes flying wide as he glimpsed her face, and shouted, “Oh my god!”

She gently probed her swollen cheek. “That bad, huh?”

Renny reached out to touch her but quickly drew back his hand. “You might need a stitch or two. I’ll get Cassia to bring the med bag.”

Before he had a chance to page her, Cassia descended the stairs with a limping Kane on her heels. Doran followed behind, navigating the steps blindly while holding a gel pack low on his forehead. The instant he met Solara’s eyes, he did a double take and flinched upright.

“What happened to you?” he asked, both brows disappearing beneath his hair.

Solara wished she had a mirror handy because she must have looked spectacular. “I had a close encounter with the shower stall. It’s not that bad.”

“You sure about that?” Kane asked with a wince.

“Here,” Doran said, holding the gel pack toward her. “You need this more than I do.” When she refused to take it—because she didn’t want anything from him except an apology—he crept closer in the tentative steps of a man approaching a wounded animal. “Really,” he said. “Before your face falls off.”

She tried smacking away his hand, but it did no good. Doran persisted until she let him rest the pack lightly against her cheekbone. The cool contact brought an instant flood of relief she hadn’t known she’d needed. It felt so good she nearly forgot why she was angry with him. But not quite.

“Thanks,” she said, reluctantly moving her hand over his. “I’ve got it.”

“The captain wants a status report,” Cassia said.

Renny blew out a long breath. “We need a new propellant cell.”

“Or…?” the girl prompted.

“Or we’re stuck at snail speed,” Solara said. “Your two-man shuttle could outrun the
Banshee
right now.”

Cassia turned to Renny. “How close are we to a supplier?”

“At this speed?” he said. “Two months out.”

Everyone in the group exchanged nervous glances, and Solara imagined they were all thinking the same thing. The
Banshee
was a transport ship, not a military vessel. With no cannons or propellant, they were easy prey for every band of roaming marauders and shipjackers in the quadrant. Or worse. The Daeva might stumble across them.

Solara shivered just thinking about it.

Kane broke the silence with the low voice someone might use to tell a ghost story. “We could go to Demarkus.”

Renny chuckled without humor. “Are you volunteering for the job?”

When nobody responded, Solara asked, “Where’s Demarkus?”

“Not
where
,” Renny said.
“Who.”

“He’s a pirate,” Kane explained. “Runs the black market in this quadrant. But he won’t do business with just anyone. All pirates belong to an alliance called the Brethren of Outcasts.” He tapped a spot on his wrist. “They wear a brand to mark themselves because pirate law favors their own kind.”

“And if you’re outside that circle,” Cassia said, “Demarkus is more likely to rob you blind than trade with you. The captain has enough street cred to barter with him, but they had a falling out last year.”

“Cap’n shot him,” Kane supplied with a grin. “Two slugs, right in the chest. Demarkus didn’t even drop his pistol. Did skew his aim, though.”

“That’s how the captain lost his leg,” Cassia added.

Renny pinched the bridge of his nose and peered at the puddle of propellant like he could reanimate it if he stared hard enough. “Demarkus knows our faces,” he said. “He’d probably sell us into slavery—if we’re lucky.”

Doran sniffed a dry laugh and glanced at Solara. “Except Solara. Not even this guy would mess with someone who looks as scary as she does right now.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the crew, and then all eyes locked on her tattoos. “You know,” Kane said with a cautious expression, “that’s not a bad idea.”

“No, I was kidding.” Doran shook his head. “It’s a terrible—”

“Wait,” Cassia interrupted. She cocked her head, studying Solara with narrowed eyes until her lips curled in a smile. “A sweet, young felon. Cute but combative.” She nodded. “Oh yeah. Demarkus would love her to pieces.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Renny said. “We can’t ask her to get involved. We’ll find another way.”

“And what other way is that?” Cassia demanded. “There’s no salvage yard out here, and we can’t exactly put out a distress call.”

No one argued, because she was right.

Solara didn’t relish the idea of bartering with a bulletproof pirate lord, but like it or not, she would do whatever it took to get the replacement part.

The crew, however, didn’t need to know that.