Starflight (5 page)

She stepped out from behind the screen and headed straight for the fuel chips. It wouldn’t take long for Doran to finish his seltzer, and then they needed to go. Each second they spent here was a risk.

She bought the sturdiest shoulder bag she could find and told the computer to fill it with chips. As she watched the tiny coins drop into the sack, an idea came to mind. She fed the machine a leather cord and instructed it to punch a hole in a set of chips to string a necklace for her to wear. She’d seen traders do the same—it kept their currency close.

While her fuel order was being filled, she wandered the aisles and purchased a practical wardrobe and enough boots to last five years. She guessed Doran’s size and ordered a set of generic coveralls for him, the kind she’d worn at the group home. It put a bounce in her step to imagine how he’d look as a ward of the diocese.

Next she loaded up on standard medications like pain relievers and antibiotics. She’d heard those were hard to find in the outer realm. After buying a precision tool kit and a set of toiletries, she was ready to have her order boxed. But then a twinkle of light caught her eye, and she saw something that sucked the air from her chest.

It was a dress. No, not a dress—a gown fit for an empress.

Made from the most opulent fabric she’d ever seen, it hugged the mannequin’s curves to the waist and flared out to the floor, shimmering like a million dying stars. The effect was mesmerizing. She couldn’t identify the dress’s color. It was simply made of brilliance.

Solara knew she’d never wear anything so lavish. A gown like that was for people with more money than IQ points. But that didn’t stop her from drifting forward and allowing the computer to take her measurements. A moment later, the screen showed her size in stock and offered the dress for five thousand credits.

She gulped and scanned her bracelet.

TRANSACTION APPROVED.

“Thanks, Doran,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have.”

A shaky laugh escaped her lips. She’d better wrap it up before she completely lost her mind. She returned to the med pod, where Doran pounded a fist against his chest and released a belch.

“Better?” she asked him.

When he glanced over his shoulder, she noticed a difference in him right away. His brow was smooth and his eyes were clear of pain. “Much.”

“Good, because you have a lot of packages to haul.”

Annoyance flashed behind his eyes, but he clenched his jaw and mumbled, “Yes, Miss Brooks.”

It was music to her ears.

Ten minutes later, he wore a set of delightfully dull coveralls and pushed a handcart piled high with her treasures. She led the way, glancing around the outpost at the green doorways to weigh her options, until a voice came over the central intercom and interrupted her thoughts.

“Passenger Spaulding,” came the announcement. “Please report to your ship.”

Solara’s heart dropped into her pants. How had the
Zenith
discovered Doran’s absence so quickly? Jerking her gaze to the nearest green doorway, she told him, “That one!” She jogged ahead of him to the corridor and punched the contact button while scanning the temporary sign affixed to the wall.

There was no information on the ship’s make or model, and Solara had never heard of a sugar glider. But beggars couldn’t be choosy. She pushed the button a few more times and peered across the expansive hub at the
Zenith
’s boarding doorway, where two stewards argued with each other. Probably debating how much longer to wait before dispatching a search team. Solara’s pulse skipped, and she pushed the button again.

Footsteps clamored from inside the boarding corridor, and a boy’s furious voice echoed, “Enough! I cranking heard you the first time!” He appeared wearing a scowl that instantly softened when he noticed her. With wheat-brown eyes the exact shade of his skin, he moved his gaze over her from head to toe while a lopsided grin curved his lips. Then he dipped his blond head, sending dreadlocks spilling over both shoulders. “Pardon my language,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a beautiful lady.”

No one had ever called Solara beautiful before, nor a lady, but the compliment didn’t touch her. She had known others like him—gorgeous and cunning boys with the same impish twinkle in their eyes. They understood how to twist a girl’s heart using nothing but words.

But not
her
heart.

“Passage for two to the outer realm,” she said coolly.

At the same time, Doran and the boy repeated, “The outer realm?”

“I thought we were going to the Obsidian Beaches,” Doran said.

“That’s right,” she corrected. “The Obsidian Beaches,
then
the outer realm.” She remembered the lie she’d told about her overprotective father. “I only contracted you as far as the beaches. Once we’re there, I’ll find another indenture to take me the rest of the way.”

The blond boy stared at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “That won’t be cheap.”

“I can pay you in credits,” she said. “Or fuel chips.”

“We prefer chips.”

“How much?”

“At least two thousand per person, probably more.”

“I’ll give you twice that if we can leave now.”

Fair brows shot up his forehead. He raised an index finger. “Wait here. The captain has to approve all passengers.” Before she could ask him to make an exception, he turned and ran down the boarding corridor.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

The intercom blared, “Passenger Spaulding, report to your ship.”

Solara’s palms began to sweat. She wiped them on her pants while peering down the dark hallway that led to the
Banshee
. What was taking the captain so long?

Seconds later, she found out.

It had taken him so long because he was older than homemade sin—and twice as terrifying. Like a craggy character ripped from the pages of an ancient seafarer novel, the captain limped onto the hub, every other step a metallic clink that suggested one of his legs was a titanium prosthetic. His eyes looked artificial, too, unnaturally black and scrutinizing her while he stroked a thick white beard. The skin on his face reminded her of a dried apple, withered and caving in on itself, and although his shoulders filled out the broad seams of his jacket, he stooped over and moved with the aid of a crutch.

Solara didn’t know what kind of captain she’d expected, but he wasn’t it.

“Captain Rossi?” she asked, resisting the urge to look away. His gaze burned as real as any med-ray until she could swear he saw inside her. Maybe he did. “I’m Lara, and this is my servant, Doran. We require passage to—”

“The fringe,” he interrupted with a smile that didn’t reach beyond his lips. “
And
the Obsidian Beaches, of course. We mustn’t forget that.”

Solara swallowed a lump of fear. He knew. Somehow he knew she was lying. Her only hope was that he cared more about money than truth. “Yes, and as I told your ship hand, I’ll pay twice the fare if we can be off.”

He watched her for a few silent moments, continuing to stroke his beard. “In a hurry, are you?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” She tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong. Like a twittering bird that had flown into a window. “I’ve heard the Obsidian sands are so fine it’s like walking on water.”

The intercom repeated, “Passenger Spaulding, report to your ship,” and Solara snuck a glance toward the opposite side of the outpost. What she saw made her insides turn cold. A dozen Enforcers in red uniforms and helmets pointed to the auto mall.

She snapped her head around and faced the captain. “Do we have a deal or not?”

His onyx gaze missed nothing. He looked at the Enforcers and then down at Solara’s gloved hands. Her chest rose and fell in gasps; her thighs tensed to run. If he said no, she would bolt to the nearest ship and take her chances. When the wait had become unbearable, he said, “Ten thousand chips.”

Relief flooded over her, so strongly that she would’ve kissed him if there were time. “Agreed.”

The captain gestured to someone behind him in the corridor, and the boy with the blond dreadlocks approached. “Help Lara’s manservant with the luggage,” the captain said. “Be quick about it. We ship out in five minutes.”

Solara learned that the blond boy’s name was Kane, and he seemed to love nothing more than the sound of his own voice.

“This is the galley,” he said, leading the way inside a small kitchen with an adjacent dining area. A rectangular table was bolted to the floor, and seating consisted of long benches positioned on either side. They were bolted down, too. Everything was—chairs, tool chests, even waste receptacles. On the
Zenith
, furniture could be moved, but that ship was larger than most high-rise hotels. The
Banshee
offered only four levels, and the combined engine room and cargo hold occupied one of them.

“You can have breakfast and lunch whenever you want,” he went on. “But everyone eats dinner together in the galley. Captain’s orders.” Kane rested a hand on her shoulder, leaning in as if they were old friends. “He’s a few centuries behind the times.”

Solara glared at his hand, and he withdrew it.

“I’m the cook,” he said. “So don’t expect high cuisine.”

She sniffed the air and picked up the acrid scents of dried onion and cumin. The crew probably ate a lot of chili. “That’s all right,” she told him. “I’m not picky.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason.” He winked, then flashed a toothy grin that slowly faded when she didn’t reciprocate. Clearing his throat, he turned to continue the tour. Only then did Solara set a smile free. It had to be killing him that she didn’t respond to his charms.

“That’s the crew’s storage hold,” he said, pointing to a metal door on the right. “And the washroom’s up there at the base of the stairs. Water’s in short supply, so you’re allowed one shower a week. In between, stick to sponge baths.”

She nodded. It’d been the same at the group home.

They climbed the stairs to the residential level, where Doran sat on the lounge floor, counting out ten thousand fuel chips. The room was so unusual that it stopped Solara short at the threshold.

“Wow,” she breathed, unable to hide her amazement.

Instead of flaking gray walls, the space was surrounded by murals depicting an alpine landscape of dark evergreens. In keeping with the forest theme, a cluster of chairs encircled a holographic fire pit, and on the opposite wall she noticed a shelf of books—real books, the kind nobody printed anymore. On the other end of the room stood a multipurpose gaming table much like the ones in the group home, though this set probably wasn’t missing half of its billiard balls. Beside it, she spotted a small cage with a dormant hamster wheel and bedding made from old rags. But whatever creature had lived there was gone. She recalled the sugar glider mentioned on the sign and figured the ship mascot had died.

Kane pointed at the murals. “It’s the Black Forest,” he said. “Or at least how the captain remembered it from when he was a boy. He says it’s mostly gone now.” Kane shrugged. “I didn’t grow up on Earth, so I wouldn’t know. Anyway, this is where we spend most of our time.”

“I can see why. It’s an amazing room.”

Doran shushed them from his spot on the floor. “Three thousand, two hundred and fifty-seven,” he said, and pushed another coin into the massive pile he’d built. He glanced up and greeted Solara with narrowed eyes. “I unpacked your things, but I still haven’t found our contract.”

“It’ll turn up,” she promised. “How’s your head?”

He didn’t seem to appreciate the change in topic but grumbled, “Fine. The tonic is still working.”

“You shouldn’t sleep in long stretches tonight, just in case you have a concussion.”

At the warning, he rubbed a nervous hand over his scalp.

“I’ll wake you,” she said. “Every hour, on the hour.”

“Are you sure?”

“Believe me, it’s the least I can do.”

When she left to resume the tour, she heard a coin scrape across the metal floor, followed by Doran’s count of “Three thousand, two hundred and…and…”

“Fifty-eight,” Kane supplied. “But why aren’t you—”

“No,” Solara interrupted before he could suggest that Doran use the currency scale. “I thought it was twenty-eight,” she lied. “Make sure you get it right. The captain won’t appreciate us shorting him.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not starting over,” Doran snapped.

“Excuse me?” she said. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

Doran mumbled a word that would make an escort blush, followed by “One”—scrape—“two”—scrape—“three…”

This trip was going to be fun.

“The ship’s quarters are down here,” Kane said. “We all double up, even the captain and the first mate.” He made an apologetic face and opened the last door in the hallway. “This is the only room we have left.”

At first, Solara didn’t see the problem. The space was clean and bright with stark-white walls and a double bed situated in the corner—lavish when compared to her narrow cot at the group home.