by Kathryn Hoff
And why had I imagined that Gav traditions—a life I fled as a child—would hold any comfort for me?
I rose to leave, but the alleyway entrance was blocked by two big Gavorans.
An aristo-accented voice boomed, “Identity check! Everyone, stay where you are. Anyone shielding a runaway will bear full punishment.”
Clan Enforcers. Clad in long black vests, they peered into the dim recesses of the shrine.
Shuffling and grumbling, worshippers lined up to show their brands and present their shoulder implants to be scanned.
I drew my scarf up over my mouth and nose and eyed the door. Gavs laid claim to any child born to a Gav mother. My hybrid features would earn me extra scrutiny, and probably a trip to a Gav council to prove my identity. If I made enough of a fuss, the Selkid governors would support my Terran status—eventually—but the bribe would be expensive.
Coming to the shrine had been a mistake.
Just as I was wondering how to slip away, a gray-pelted elder shoved her way to the front, calling, “Shame on you! How dare you interrupt our innocent prayers?” She beat a frail fist against the tallest enforcer’s furred chest. Even at her age, she risked a beating.
Slaves surged up behind the brave old woman. “That’s the way, grandmother. You tell them!”
It was a convenient diversion—too convenient. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who wanted to avoid being scanned.
The woman beside me shifted to allow a girl to creep past, heading for the shelter of the alters. I stepped forward and shook out my robe, screening the girl as she slipped under a table.
The enforcer laughed at the crone. “Go back to your master, grandma, and thank your ancestors we’re feeling lenient.” He playfully shoved the old lady, making her stagger.
Hiding under a table would not protect the girl for long. If an old lady could risk a beating to protect her, then so could I.
I ran forward, calling, “Granny! You monsters! How dare you strike an old woman!”
I don’t know who was more surprised, the Clan Enforcers or my “granny.” I barreled into the nearest enforcer with all my considerable weight, shoving him into his companion. Both of them fell against the flimsy totem panels.
The enforcer was quick. He turned and slammed me into an altar. The little table shattered, scattering candles and offerings.
Slaves screamed. Some ran to comfort the old woman, tipping over more altars in the process. Some stamped out the tiny candle flames while others knelt to gather up spilled offerings. Between them, they effectively blocked the exit—after the girl fled out.
“Runaway!” The enforcer started after her, but I grabbed his ankle, tripping him into the old woman. I rolled onto my feet as granny screeched and clung to his arm.
The enforcer threw off the old woman and grabbed for me. I braced myself, but someone pushed a clump of decorated panels into his path. Several slaves rushed to “help” the enforcers up, exclaiming loudly, getting in one another’s way, tripping over upset altars, and giving me time to dash out.
It took only a moment in a dark doorway to ditch my robe and scarf, revealing my Terran clothing. I crammed the purple beret over my sloped Gav forehead and let my curly orange hair—my most Terran feature—bush out behind.
As the two enforcers emerged into the alley, I stumbled into their path. In outraged Terran, I yelled, “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”
They looked past me. “Did you see a girl? A runaway slave?”
I stood my ground. “Why should I help you?” But my gaze drifted toward the street leading away from the docks.
The enforcers pushed past me, pounding down the street.
In Gavoran, I said, “They’re gone.”
From behind a stack of trash, the girl peeped out.
CHAPTER 4
Cargo and contraband
Archer and Kojo drove the sledges, each pulling a train of twenty-one crates, up to the scanners at the exports inspection station. We’d been waiting nearly two hours for our turn to bring our cargo to the docks.
The exports inspector—the ag equipment dealer’s friend—flared his gills and blinked his tiny eyes. From his throat sac came a grating crash. His translator plug squawked, “What cargo?”
I handed over the manifests along with the dealer’s chit. “Agricultural equipment, used.” The usual tip of a few rhollium coins chinked onto the inspector’s stand.
With a little sleight of hand, I slipped the real bribe—a finger-sized rhollium ingot—into the inspector’s flipper.
The Selkid stared at the scanner readout and checked the manifest. With a practiced wave of the flipper, he stamped a “Passed” chip on the first crate. “Next crate.”
Forty-two crates, forty-two chips.
When the first half was done, Kojo sped his train to Sparrowhawk to begin loading. I waited patiently, passing the time by fending off the inspector’s invitations to become better acquainted—as practiced and routine as slapping chips onto export containers.
When the inspector pasted the final chip and made his last leering overture—You know what they say about Selkids, don’t you? Any species, any gender, any time—I perched atop the last crate in Archer’s train to ride down the docks.
Our sledges passed all the big Cartel freighters berthed at the heavy-duty launch lifters, and all the classy cruisers used by Gav and Terran buyers. Far beyond, in one of the cheap slips among the tramps and junkers, was Sparrowhawk.
Kojo had already started loading the cargo into Sparrowhawk’s holds. With me and Archer helping, we were soon lashing the last of the crates to the battens.
“Where’s Hiram?” Loading cargo wasn’t one of his duties, but he usually kept us entertained with yarns and unnecessary advice.
“Here I am, missy.” He appeared at the door to the hold, carrying an open box. “I got a little bit more cargo for us, if you don’t mind.” A tiny mew came from within.
Archer peered into the box. A grin spread across his face. “A kitten! Oh, it’s adorable.”
His cupped hands pulled out an orange-and-white ball of fluff.
Kojo rolled his eyes. “Hiram, I don’t think…”
Hiram looked up hopefully. “The Selkid barkeep was gonna serve her for lunch, can you believe it? She’ll catch the bilge mice in the holds when she gets bigger. Besides, I could use the company.”
Archer looked at me with pleading eyes. “It would be nice to have a kitty around. I’ll help make her a snug, to keep her safe when there’s turbulence.”
She was adorable. White with orange tabby blotches, blue eyes, and a pink bud of a nose.
Mew.
If a kitten would keep Hiram happy, then I was all for it. But Kojo stood rigidly, as if waiting for an attack.
“It’s up to the captain,” I said.
Kojo’s eyes widened in surprise. After a moment, he nodded. “Patch is in charge of cargo and passengers.”
I grinned. “Done. She’s your responsibility, Hiram. Keep her out of the salon and galley. And, um…she’s been neutered, hasn’t she?”
“Plenty of time for that. She’s too young yet.”
He and Archer went off to fix up a sleeping cubby for her.
Kojo ran a hand over his curls. “Zub’s beard, now we’re taking on strays. Did you talk to Branson?”
“It took some back and forth, but he’s giving us three years to pay.” At an exorbitant interest rate, but it bought us time. “Come over here a moment. There’s something I need to show you.”
I walked him over to the crates he’d loaded first. “Don’t panic, but one of these crates is hiding five hydroverters. We need to get them into one of the bulkhead caches before we depart.”
“Hydro—? Hell, Patch! Didn’t you think to talk to me before taking those on?”
“The cargo’s my job. You said it yourself—we won’t get out of debt by hauling used tractors.”
“But hydroverters…five of them! Damn it, Patch, you should have talked to m
e.”
“I’m talking to you now. And…there’s one more thing I need to show you.” At one of the larger crates, I flipped open the latches.
The Gav runaway peered out, her eyes wide.
Kojo sucked in a breath.
I spoke to her in soft Gavoran. “This is my brother. We’ll keep you safe.” I turned back to Kojo. “It’s just until we get to a Terran port where she can claim asylum.”
Kojo dragged me to a corner. “Zub’s beard, Patch. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“The fix was already in to get the hydroverters past the inspector. I just added a little extra to the load. She can hide in the storeroom cache if we get stopped.”
Kojo rubbed both hands over his face. “Stray cats, and now…Patch, you have no idea what a burzing mess this is.”
I stared at him, my jaw tight. “What’s the problem? We’ve carried runaways before. I can’t send her back to her master any more than…than Hiram could eat a kitten.”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Kojo hissed. “The caches are already full.”
“Full? Full of what?”
“The special consignment. The one Dad accepted from Ordalo.”
I blinked, thoroughly confused. “What consignment? Who’s Ordalo?”
He dropped his voice to a whisper, as if the hold might be hiding spies. “The consignment. The synthreactor.”
Kojo might as well have been barking in Selkid. “The what?”
Kojo sighed. “I guess he didn’t tell you either. A microbial synthreactor. He promised Ordalo he’d deliver it.”
My stomach dropped. Restricted tech that could change barren dirt to fertile soil, making uninhabitable worlds ripe for settlement. The Gavoran-controlled Settlement Authority regulated synthreactors with an iron fist to keep other races—especially Terrans—from spreading into new systems.
A synthreactor was a lot bigger and a hell of a lot more illegal to transport than a few hydroverters. Years-in-prison illegal. Confiscate-the-ship illegal.
No wonder Papa had apologized. This was a risk far outside our usual runs of petty contraband.
He’d kept us in the dark about so much—what else might he have hidden?
I grabbed Kojo’s sleeve. “What in Zub’s name are we supposed to do with…with one of those?”
“Hold onto it, for now. Go about our business. And in a few weeks, make a side trip. Dad agreed to deliver it to a planet way out in the fringe. A place called Kriti, at the edge of the Gloom.”
My stomach sank. The Gloom, a region of space where the ether was so dense it was almost unnavigable. A place beyond the reach of beacons to guide or law to protect. The Gloom’s tendrils hid the lairs and hideouts of pirates, smugglers, and outlaws with little left to lose.
The Gloom was no place for a moderately honest little space hauler.
Want to read more?
Bloodstone
Sparrowhawk Book 1
Born a slave, Patch is determined never again to let anyone control her fate. Despite a mountain of debts, a long list of needed repairs, and constant friction with her brother, Patch loves the freedom and independence of sailing their run-down space hauler Sparrowhawk.
In Bloodstone, dodgy passengers and an ancient relic pull Sparrowhawk into a danger-filled journey through uncharted space to discover the secrets of the relic’s origin and its dark, telepathic influence.
Armed with determination, wry humor, and healthy skepticism, Patch navigates between cultures as she sails her ship between worlds, confronting pirates and scoundrels, religious intolerance, and her own self-doubt.
If you’re a fan of Firefly, Star Wars, or Battlestar Galactica, or the books of Elizabeth Moon or J.N. Chaney, you’ll enjoy the rough and tumble space adventures of Patch and the crew of Sparrowhawk.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathryn Hoff has studied anthropology, manned the trenches on archeological digs, penetrated the mysteries of financial statements, and negotiated billion-dollar investments into developing countries. She has now graduated to making up stories. When not writing, she volunteers at a major zoo. Favorite animal: Heterocephalus glaber, the naked mole-rat.