Sotelo crosses his arms over his chest. “That depends on the favor.”
Meshach rubs at a reddish-blond beard that is just starting to sprout gray streaks. “We have reason to believe a criminal escaped Gebose today, and we’re asking all the crews who left port in the past few hours to check for a stowaway.”
“What kind of criminal?” Coleman’s voice carries a sharp edge of skepticism.
“A thief. A female domestic worker.”
“Is she dangerous?” Zamora asks.
Meshach actually laughs. “No. She’s young, small, and unarmed. She was sent to the market, but instead she absconded with the vouchers that were supposed to buy food for her household.”
That part’s true.
“Well, our ship is quite small. You can see more than half of it right now.” Sotelo gestures toward the main deck. “And I can assure you there’s no one in the cargo hold. I was just down there myself.”
Meshach only stares at him in a silence most men find withering. Yet Sotelo and his crew seem unaffected. Finally, Meshach sighs and adopts a more congenial expression, as if whatever he’s about to ask for is simply a slightly embarrassing but perfectly reasonable request from a close friend. “Would you mind opening your sleeping berths, so I can see that they’re unoccupied?”
“They are not unoccupied,” Sotelo says, and on his right, Coleman’s hands curl into fists. “Some of my men are resting off-shift, and my wife is in one of the bunks, asleep. I’m not going to bother any of them to satisfy your unfounded suspicion. I’ve already told you that your thief is not onboard this ship.”
Meshach frowns. “Of course you’re right. I apologize for the intrusion.” But his jaw clenches, a clear demonstration of his anger. “Still, I would ask you to keep an eye out for our little thief on your supply stop—you’re headed to Miscellany, right? —in case she’s found a ride onboard another ship. Miscellany is the closest refueling port, and I doubt yours is the only ship headed there today, after leaving Gebose.”
“And who, exactly should we be keeping an eye out for?” Coleman demands. “We’ll need a name and a description.”
“Her name is Grace. And she likely looks like nothing but a transparent blur, because of a modesty sheath like the one you saw my wife wearing.”
Dreyer cocks her head to the side. “You’re assuming she would still be wearing one of your covering garments?”
Meshach’s gaze flicks her way for just a second, then he focuses on a point over her head. Because he’s not supposed to look upon a woman he isn’t related to, either by blood or marriage. “I’m certain she is. She’s never gone without the sheath in public, and in fact, she rarely takes it off in private. Women who have been covered for their entire lives are typically uncomfortable with the idea of being seen by strangers.”
As if he’s an authority on the subject.
“And she’s been covered her entire life?” Coleman’s tone echoes my own confusion. I’d never worn a sheath until I woke up in Gebose. Of all the things Meshach could have lied about, this seems like an odd choice.
“Yes. You’re sure she isn’t on board? Perhaps hiding beneath her sheath?”
“Very sure.” Sotelo nods. “That might have been a possibility, had we not seen your wife wearing hers. But now that we’ve seen that subtle translucent shimmer, we aren’t likely to overlook it.”
“Well then.” Meshach clears his throat. “I thank you for your time.” Then the square goes foggy again, a second before it returns to its original transparent state, through which I can see thousands of pinpoints of light.
Stars. Those are stars. Because I’m in space.
Suddenly the vastness of it feels at once terrifying and liberating. As if anything is possible, out here. And that could be either good or bad.
“All clear.” Zamora spins his chair to face the rest of the main deck. “You can come out now, Grace.”
I wait a heartbeat, reluctant to expose myself again. What if Meshach is somehow still watching? Or listening? What if he somehow only pretended to end the com? Then, slowly, I slide the panel open. “Thank you.” I blink back relieved tears. “Thank you for not sending me back.”
“We would never do that,” Coleman assures me.
I slide my legs out of the bunk and hop down, but I’ve forgotten how high up I really am. My landing jars my joints and echoes up my legs. Then my knees buckle and my palms hit the floor.
“Careful.” A hand reaches down, and when I accept the offered assistance, I find myself staring up at Captain Sotelo.
A growl rumbles across the main deck, echoing deep in my head. In my chest. Dreyer gasps, and I turn to find her staring, wide-eyed, at something behind me. I spin around and am shocked by what I see.
Vaughn Coleman is glaring at Captain Sotelo over my head, his golden eyes narrowed in what can only be described as utter outrage. I reach for him before I realize what I’m doing, because though I don’t understand why, I’m suddenly certain that my touch will calm him. But when my hand lands on his, pale against the dark brown of his skin, I don’t find the smooth flesh I expect.
I gasp as I pull my hand back. There are spikes sticking out of Coleman’s knuckles. The row at the top of his palm. As if they just grew there, all on their own.
“Back off,” he growls, still glaring at Sotelo as if he’s expecting a confrontation. His hands curl into fists. I hear an odd whispering sound, and suddenly there are strange, bony blades growing from his forearms, with edges like serrated knives. Long, sharp spikes protrude from his elbows, curved along the same line as his triceps. “Do not touch her,” Vaughn snarls.
I retreat until my spine hits the wall. My pulse races, and I can’t stop staring.
Vaughn Coleman has become a living weapon. And I’m the only one who seems surprised.
5
GRACE
“COLEMAN…” Sotelo’s tone carries a calm warning. “Rein it in. You can do it. Just…pull it back. No one here is a threat to you. Least of all me.”
“What’s happening?” I ask, my eyes wide.
“Grace,” Dreyer whispers, and I turn to see her gesturing to me with one hand. Waving me away from Coleman and Sotelo.
Slowly, I edge toward her, afraid that any sudden movement on my part will— Well, I don’t know what I’m afraid of, exactly, but sudden movement seems like a bad idea. Whatever is happening to Coleman has clearly put him on a hair trigger.
“What’s going on?” I whisper again, practically huddled up to Dreyer. “What’s wrong with him?” Why does Coleman have extra parts? Dangerous parts?
“We’ll explain in a minute,” she breathes. “Let us get him calmed down first.”
So I watch, fascinated, as the captain speaks to Coleman in a low-pitched but firm voice. “Pull it back, Vaughn.” That’s the first time I’ve heard him use Coleman’s first name. “Just take a deep breath and pull it back. No one here is challenging you.”
Coleman blinks. Then he sucks in a deep breath that seems more painful than calming, as if it burns on the way in. And slowly, the odd bone blades begin to recede into his arms—exactly where those strange, straight scars are, on the undersides of his forearms. Which is when I realize they aren’t scars. They’re seams in his skin.
The long, pointed spears recede into his elbows and the much shorter spikes disappear into his knuckles. And finally, an exhalation bursts from Coleman’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, his now-normal fists still clenched as he stares at Sotelo. “I don’t know where that came from.” Then he spins to face me, and I edge behind Dreyer, startled by the intensity of his focus. “Grace, I’m so sorry.”
I don’t understand why he’s apologizing to me. I don’t know what the sudden appearance of weapons from his flesh has to do with me. “What’s going on?” I ask for the third time. “What happened to you?”
Gazes bounce across the main hold as the crew members look at each other. Everyone seems to be waiting for someone else to speak. And
that’s when I remember that Zamora also has those same scars. No, they’re seams. Does that mean he can also sprout weapons?
I squint at Captain Sotelo’s forearms, which I can see beneath the short sleeves of his tee shirt. He, too, has those seams. “You can all do that?” I look from Sotelo to Zamora. “You can all make weapons appear from within your flesh?” How sheltered must my life have been, in the convent, if I didn’t know that was possible?
Wait, no one on Gebose can sprout weapons. And no one on the main deck seems happy about what I’ve just seen. “This isn’t normal, is it? There’s something different about you?” Though that seems to be understating things more than a bit.
“No,” Dreyer says. “No, this is very not-normal. In fact, it’s a very important secret. One we had no intention of showing you.” She glances at Coleman in reproach.
He gives her a sheepish look. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”
Dreyer takes a deep breath. “Grace, we’re sort of backed against the wall, here. We’re going to have to trust you not to tell our secret, like you’ve trusted us not to tell yours.”
“Your secret.” I let the words roll around in my mind, knocking loose other associations. Odd things I’ve noticed, that suddenly make more sense. Kind of. “This is why you’re buying a ship on the black market? Why you gave Meshach fake names?”
“That’s part of it.” Coleman looks like he wants to come closer and is holding himself back. With great effort. “There’s so much more, but we need to know we can trust you before we tell you everything.”
“Wait.” Zamora frowns. “We’re telling her everything? Did I miss a vote?”
Coleman glares at him. “She needs us, and now we need her. What’s the point of hiding anything?”
“Are you seriously suggesting there’s no middle ground between keeping her on a need-to-know basis—for everyone’s safety—and telling her everything?” Zamora demands, and I wish I could sink through the floor. I hate being the cause of conflict. “I mean, does she really need to know the color of your tighty whities?”
“Wouldn’t those be white, by definition?” Dreyer points out, quite logically.
Zamora rolls his eyes. “Not the point. I’m just saying we should take a vote before we decide to put our lives in her hands.”
“We’re already there,” Sotelo points out. “She can’t un-see or un-hear any of this, so—”
“So, we just hand over our names, ranks, and serial numbers, so she can turn us in more efficiently?”
My gaze bounces back and forth among them, as unease crawls over my skin. I shouldn’t be here for this. Maybe I should sneak back into the cargo hold…
“How is she supposed to turn us in, when she doesn’t even know how to go online?” Coleman says, and it worries me that his defense of me is based on my ignorance.
“We don’t know that that’s even true!” Zamora stands, leaving the pilot’s station unmanned. “We haven’t been able to verify a single thing she’s told us so far. She’s from a planet that doesn’t exist. She was raised by nuns who don’t exist. She claims she’s fleeing sexual slavery, but Meshach says she’s a petty thief. And look at her! She looks all innocent and harmless, but for all we know, she was sent here to bring us in. Or to seduce the secrets right out of us. Do you have any idea what some of UA’s competitors would pay for a sample of what Coleman’s dying to shoot into her?”
“Zamora!” Dreyer spins on him, reproach written in the angry line of her brow.
A low-pitched growl rumbles from behind me, resonating deep in my bones, and I know without looking that it’s coming from Coleman. “Apologize,” he snarls, and I really hope he hasn’t sprouted weapons again. This shuttle is much too small a space to host a fight between men this big.
Zamora exhales slowly. “I’m sorry, man. You know I—”
“To Grace,” Coleman clarifies, and I freeze hoping that if I don’t move, they’ll forget I’m here. “You will not speak so disrespectfully about her.”
“Coleman’s right,” Sotelo adds. “Grace is a guest.”
I’m not sure why they all seem to think Zamora has insulted me. I kind of like the idea that I could be a spy or a bounty hunter, hiding behind my “harmless” facade. Dangerous, in secret. Though I’m not sure what sample of Coleman’s he’s talking—
Oh.
My face warms with the understanding.
“I’m not a spy,” I say, and though my words carry little volume, they seem to cut through the tension on the main deck like a knife’s edge. All eyes turn my way, as if they actually have forgotten I’m still here. Which is an interesting trick, considering I’m the current topic of conversation. “I wish I were a spy. I wish I had some better story to tell you than the truth. But as boring as it is, it’s my life.”
“You are anything but boring,” Coleman assures me, and when I look up, I see him smiling at me rather intensely. I find myself returning his smile. I can’t help it.
Then I turn to Zamora. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” I assure him. “But I swear to you I have no agenda, other than escaping Gebose. And I would be as happy to be off your ship as you would be happy to have me gone.”
Shame flickers across his expression. “No, Grace.” Zamora exhales, and his affronted stance seems to melt. “That’s not what I want. And I know you’re not a spy. Or, if you are, you’re the best one in history.”
That sounds like a compliment, yet somehow I think it probably isn’t.
“It isn’t telling you our secrets I object to,” he continues. “It’s telling anyone. At least, without a vote. We aren’t soldiers following orders anymore; we’re all supposed to get a say in these things.”
“I understand.” My gaze drops to the seams on the undersides of his forearms. “Though I have to admit, I am curious.”
“Okay.” And with that one word, Sotelo regains control of the main deck. “How long until we reach Miscellany?”
Zamora turns back to the flight controls. “We dock in just over an hour.”
“Then here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to wake up Jamison and Lawrence and fill them in, then we’re going to take a vote on whether or not to tell Grace exactly what she got herself into, when she snuck on board this ship.”
“SUPER-SOLDIERS?” I’ve never heard the term before, but it seems to fit what I saw upstairs. Though the explanation of the procedures they all went through in order to gain these alien augmentations is a bit harder for me to comprehend. “So, it was like a big science experiment? My studies with Sister Tabitha included a few of those, in the basement beneath the—”
I bite off the rest of that thought, frustrated by the realization that I have no idea how many of my memories are real.
Was there even a Sister Tabitha?
Coleman shifts on the empty crate he’s sitting on, kindly giving me a moment to process my confusion.
“It was more like a two-year-long mad scientist torture-fest.” Dreyer sits next to me on the other crate, and it’s clear that she’s been chosen to chaperone this disclosure because the others don’t think I should be left alone with Coleman. Though I’m not sure why. Even when he was sprouting built-in weapons, he never so much as glanced at me in anger.
In the end, despite Zamora’s initial objection, the crew voted unanimously to fill me in on their situation, and Captain Sotelo sent the three of us into the cargo hold for that purpose, so he and the rest of the crew could continue their work. And, I think, in case Meshach calls again.
“Universal Authority found us in the field,” Coleman continues. “In battle on another planet.”
“Tethys—our homeworld—hasn’t had war on its surface in generations,” Dreyer explains. “So our government hires out its soldiers. Combat exportation is our biggest industry.”
“Anyway, we were part of an elite combat unit called Zeta 8, which was why we were targeted by UA. They found us in the field and framed us for the slaughter of inn
ocent civilians, then when we were arrested, they offered us a choice. We could stay and be executed for war crimes we hadn’t committed, or we could join their project and become super-soldier prototypes. The first of their kind.”
“And for that, they used alien DNA?” That part makes my head spin. I didn’t even know there were aliens. “Where did they get it? Who are the aliens?”
“Their species has been extinct for thousands of years,” Dreyer says. “UA found the remains of their civilization and took samples, which they spent decades analyzing and replicating. And eventually, they became convinced they could splice some of that genetic material into human beings.”
“We are the end-phase of that research. The six of us are the first successful integration of alien DNA into living humans.” Coleman looks conflicted about what he’s saying—both proud and angry—and I think maybe he feels about his alien traits like I feel about my modesty sheath.
I hate it, and I hated having it forced upon me, yet I also find it comforting.
“And… you ran away?”
“We escaped,” he corrects me. “Just like you did. We stole this shuttle and fled the planet where we were created, for lack of a better term.”
“And you’re using fake names and buying an unregistered ship because Universal Authority wants you back?” Just like Meshach wants me back.
“Exactly,” Dreyer says.
“And I’ve put you at risk, by sneaking onto your ship.”
“No,” Coleman insists.
“Yes.” Dreyer gives him a look. Then she smiles at me. “But everything we do puts us at risk, so this really isn’t much different from our status quo.”
My gaze is drawn to the scars on Dreyer’s arms, and again I note that they’re different from the men’s. They don’t look like seams. “So, you didn’t get those built-in weapons?” I ask her.
“Some, I did.” She forms a fist with her right hand and shows me a series of X-shaped seams on the knuckles at the top of her palm, exactly where the spikes came out of Coleman’s hands earlier. “And I got other abilities the guys didn’t.” Dreyer shrugs. “That’s evidently part of the physical difference between men and women of that alien species.”
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