Starflight (9 page)

Doran blew out a breath. Everything would be all right.

In the meantime, he’d have to play the part of Solara’s manservant. The idea made his jaw clench. What were the odds of them sharing a bedroom for the next few days without killing each other?

About as likely as him admiring her toes ever again.

After closing the pilothouse door, he followed the sounds of fists against steel to the impromptu holding cell he’d created on the bottom floor. He released his prisoner with a warning: “Try anything and I’ll shove you in the garbage chute, where you belong.”

The little rat drifted into the open, shooting daggers with her eyes while her hair snaked out in all directions. Her nostrils flared as she heaved a furious breath. Now that she’d dropped the whole innocent act, she reminded him of Medusa. Which fit her true nature a whole lot better. “Well?” she forced through her teeth. “Believe me now?”

He refused to acknowledge the question, instead turning and launching himself toward the stairs. “I’d estimate we’re at least two days from the nearest outpost. If we’re going to coexist until then, we need to establish some ground rules.”

She smirked and followed. “I’ll take that as a
yes
.”

“Rule number one, I’ll keep the stunner,” he said, holding out his palm. The weapon might come in handy if the crew discovered his identity.

“No way.” She pressed a protective hand to her side pocket. “How do I know you won’t use it on me?”

“Because unlike you, I’m not a lowlife convict.” When she hesitated, he told her, “This is nonnegotiable.”

“Fine. It only has one use left anyway.” She tossed the button-like device into the air between them. “Rule number two,” Solara said. “We’re not sleeping together.”

A snort of derision tore from his throat. “As if I’d share a bed with you.”

“Then enjoy the floor.”

“Why shouldn’t
you
take the floor?”

She flashed a dimple at him. “Because I’m not the one at risk for ransom.”

Anger flushed his skin. He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought she had an honest face. “You’re a real masterpiece, aren’t you? How many of my credits did you steal at that outpost?”

“Hey, at least I didn’t leave you stranded there—like you tried to do to me.”

“Clearly you would’ve been fine.”

“If that’s what you think, then clearly you’re a pampered horse’s ass!”

“You don’t know anyth—”

A distant throat clearing interrupted their argument, and Doran turned to find Captain Rossi making his way toward them in the spry movements of a man accustomed to zero gravity, twice as quick in the air than on his feet. Doran studied the captain for any sign that he’d overheard something incriminating, but the only emotion etched on his wrinkled face was annoyance.

Solara waved. “We were just coming to wake you. I fixed your gravity drive.”

Rossi’s furry gray brows jumped.

“I’ll bet you didn’t know,” Doran said to dispel suspicion, “that our Miss Brooks is a budding engineer.”

The captain turned his dark eyes on her, but he didn’t say a word. He simply stared until the silence grew awkward, then drew a sudden breath and said, “There’s not much I
do
know about our Miss Brooks. I think it’s time to remedy that.”

Solara paled a few shades and nodded. Judging by the twitch of her feet, she looked ready to pitch herself out the air-lock—a decision Doran fully endorsed.

“Let’s talk over breakfast,” she squeaked. It was satisfying to watch her squirm, until she added, “My servant will cook for us.”

Doran shot her a warning glare. He didn’t cook for anyone. Not even himself.

“He’ll clean the galley, too,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Our Doran’s no engineer, but he sure is a hard worker. I can’t wait to show you what he’s made of.”

“M
ight as well take off the gloves.” Using his crutch for support, Captain Rossi lowered onto the pilot’s seat. Its metal springs groaned beneath his weight, and he mimicked the sound while rubbing one knee. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

He stowed his crutch on the floor between their chairs, leaning close enough for Solara to hear the tinny click of his artificial heart—a Beatmaster 3000, from the sound of it. The hollow tap was a dead giveaway. Lab-grown donor organs had replaced that technology decades ago, meaning the captain had to be at least a hundred years old. He seemed to have a lot of mechanical enhancements. Solara wondered how long a man could keep replacing his broken parts with machines before he lost what made him a person.

She pointed at his knee, which could use an upgrade, too. “I’ll bet you felt better when the grav drive was broken. Less stress on your joints.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he said, powering on the main engine. The ship came to life in a gentle hum that drowned out the sound of his Beatmaster. “I know you’re marked. What’d you do?”

Solara dropped her gaze into her lap and used a thumb to stroke the buttery leather of her glove. Did the whole crew know? Had they talked about her, worried she might attack them in their sleep? If so, they’d probably bolted their doors last night, too.

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” she said.

“I know that.” His tone sounded clipped, as if she’d offended him. “The
Banshee
isn’t much to look at, but she’s where I lay my head at night. If I thought you were a threat, I wouldn’t have let you on board.”

“Thank you. She’s a fine ship.”

The captain wheezed a laugh. His chest shook, causing Acorn to flick her long, fluffy tail out of his pocket. “Now I know you’re a liar
and
a con.” He motioned to her with one hand. “Let me see.”

His smile gave Solara the courage to peel off her gloves. She extended both arms while Rossi squinted at the block letters etched onto her skin. He arched an appreciative brow and let out a whistle.

“Grand theft,” he said. “And conspiracy. Didn’t see that coming.”

“It sounds worse than it really is.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m not a thief.”

She shoved her hands back inside their casings, but that didn’t stop Doran’s voice from echoing inside her head.
You’re a real masterpiece, aren’t you? How many of my credits did you steal at that outpost?

Just because Doran had money to burn didn’t mean she had any right to take it. Her face grew warm when she pictured the crates of supplies downstairs in her quarters. There was nothing wrong with using his money to buy passage—he had promised her that in their contract—but she’d gone overboard with the clothes and tools…and the ball gown.

She
was
a thief.

“I didn’t say you were,” the captain told her. “Inked knuckles don’t mean much.” He disengaged the
Banshee
from its docking station, and with a slight lurch, they left the moon colony behind. Slanting her a glance, he said, “You met Renny. He’ll steal the gun right off an Enforcer’s hip, but he’ll never wear a thief’s mark. He’s too good to get caught.”

“That’s different,” she said. “Renny has a sweet spirit. He doesn’t want to steal.”

The captain lifted a shoulder. “Doesn’t stop my pills from going missing.”

“What I did was on purpose.” She knitted her fingers together. “Kind of.”

“Let me guess: the devil made you do it,” he said, beard twitching as he grinned.

The devil
. What a fitting description for Jace. The nuns had always preached that Satan was a seducer, that he dealt in clever half-truths and betrayed anyone foolish enough to allow him into her heart.

“Yes,” she said. “You nailed it.”

“Your father?”

“No. I don’t remember my father.” Like most kids at the group home, she’d been accepted into the custody of the church because her parents couldn’t afford to keep her, and neither could the state. The abandonment stung, but at least her mom and dad hadn’t thrown her to the wolves the way Jace had done. “He was a friend,” she said as a blush crept into her cheeks. “Or at least it started that way.”

The captain grunted in understanding. “Ah, yes. Love—the great equalizer. It makes all of us stupid.”

A familiar ache opened up behind Solara’s breast, but she forced it down. She hated that Jace still had the power to hurt her from halfway across the galaxy. She hated even more that she’d given him that power—dropped her heart right into his waiting hands in exchange for a few sweaty fumblings and some pretty words.

“It’ll never happen again,” she insisted. “I’m smarter now.” She didn’t know who she was trying harder to convince, herself or the captain, so she asked, “Can we talk about something else?”

“One more question, and then we don’t have to talk at all.”

“Fair enough.”

He brought the ship around and hit the accelerator, and the
Banshee
shrieked, hurtling them away from the nearest sun and into the black. Light faded and within moments they were surrounded by a veil of darkness. The view sent a shiver down her spine. If anything could make her feel even more insignificant, it was the open void of space.

After programming a navigational course, the captain released the controls and sat back to face her. “What are you really after,” he asked, “in the fringe?”

Solara drew a breath and prepared to give him the easy answer:
a job
. But something in his expression caught her off guard. A hint of tenderness shone in the depths of his ebony eyes, like he actually cared. She didn’t know if that was the case, but she found herself willing to share the truth with him. And the truth was bigger than simply needing a job.

She was tired of being charity’s slave.

When farms donated soy-meal to the group home, that was what she ate. If she outgrew her boots, she made do until someone discarded a larger pair. When her data tablet broke, she shared with another orphan. Nothing belonged to her, not a single sock. Even her underclothes had been handed down.

She wanted to own something, all to herself.

More than that, she craved a purpose—to matter and feel needed. In the outer realm, settlers didn’t care about supple skin or glossy pink hair. Practical skills were the real beauty in those colonies, and for once, she would be stunning.

Finally she told the captain, “A new life. That’s what I’m after.”

He made a noncommittal noise, and she couldn’t help noticing that the smile had left his face. “And you think you’ll find it there?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Ever been to a fringe planet?”

“No, but I’ve heard the stories.”

“It’s a dirty, hard existence,” he warned.

“I know that. And I want it.”

He tipped his head in a
suit yourself
gesture. “All right, then. I guess we’d best see to our breakfast.” Turning to his navigational screen, he added, “I just need to engage the autopilot.”

She leaned in to peer over his shoulder. “It’s not broken, then?”

“What’s not broken?”

“The autopilot,” she said, testing him. “Isn’t that why we docked last night?”

He shifted a terse glance in her direction, a look that told her not to play games. “You know it’s not.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I felt the blast.” She chewed the inside of her cheek and tried to think of a way to probe for more information without revealing that she was a kidnapper
and
a thief. “Who were they after?”

Gaze softening again, he patted her knee. “Not you.”

Solara blew out a breath. That was all she needed to know.

They stood and slid aside the pilothouse door, then instantly recoiled at the stench that slammed into them from the other side.

“Saints on a cracker,” she hissed, waving a hand to dispel the fumes. “Only one thing stinks like that.”

“Burnt porridge,” the captain muttered. “We’ll never get the smell out.”

He was right. Burnt gruel had magical properties, clinging to walls and surfaces like a hundred-year curse until the reek grew so familiar that you stopped noticing it. In hindsight, maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered Doran for breakfast duty.

By the time Solara and the captain arrived in the galley, the whole crew had gathered at the table, Cassia and Kane on one side, Doran and Renny on the other. Each head was bent over a bowl of flawlessly prepared hot cereal, creamy and dusted with a sprinkling of cinnamon. That didn’t explain the foul smell…until she glanced at her spot at the table and the bowl of soup waiting there. It seemed Doran had managed to simultaneously burn and drown her porridge.

And judging by the smug look on his face, he’d done it on purpose.

“Kane helped with breakfast,” Doran told her. “But I insisted on making yours all by myself. I hope you love it.”

She faked a smile and settled on the bench beside him. If he thought he’d won this round, he was wrong. She had eaten far worse than this. “I’m sure I will,” she said, even as the putrid scent burned her nostrils. Peering down, she used her spoon to jab a lump floating in the gruel. Was that charred grain or a dead bug?

“Go ahead,” Doran challenged. “Don’t be shy. There’s plenty more.”

She glanced up and noticed the whole crew watching her with mingled amusement and disbelief. Even Acorn, who was perched on the captain’s shoulder, nibbling a chunk of dried fruit, had trained her glassy black eyes on the bowl. Before Solara lost her nerve, she scooped up a spoonful of porridge and shoved it in her mouth.