Kyra scampered to a seat, not wanting to get yelled at. Derrick seemed more impatient and annoyed than angry, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be on the receiving end of his ire. She’d already been humiliated once today—well, twice, if you counted tripping and being laughed at as two separate things. Well, three times, if you counted being caught staring lustfully at a complete stranger.
A low muttering rose around the room as the passengers all moved to the two long rows of cushioned seats. The clink of metal on metal as they strapped themselves into the safety harnesses drowned out the muted conversations. Derrick watched them with a sardonic eye. An unfamiliar voice thin with age came over the intercom. “Push off in twenty. Complete flight check.”
Derrick watched them all, shaking his head like they were the sorriest lot of vermin he’d ever seen. Vienna strode in and gave him a nod.
“Everything stowed?” he asked.
“Right and tight,” she said. She moved past him, going down the first row, checking harnesses. One of the techs had fastened the buckle wrong. Vienna stopped to instruct him on how to fix it as Derrick muttered about idiots.
Kyra clutched the straps of her harness, her stomach fluttering wildly. Excitement. Trepidation. Nervousness. It was a pretty even mix.
Derrick moved down her row checking harnesses and stopped in front of her. He frowned down at her as if trying to sort out a puzzle. She peeked up at him, confused as to what he could possibly be about to say. She met his eyes; they were green and piercing, set under a pair of perfectly-shaped dark brown brows. Her stomach flip-flopped.
“It’s gonna be a long trip for you if you puke before takeoff,” he said gruffly, snapping her back to reality. “During slingshot, it will end up coating everyone and everything in the flight deck, and folks don’t take too kindly to the cleanup required afterwards. You won’t find many friends here after that.”
Her eyes widened, and she gaped at him. She thought maybe her mouth hung open. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say, but that wasn’t it.
The passenger behind her laughed, and her face heated. Before she could protest that she wasn’t in danger of throwing up, Derrick continued on his way, moving down the row as he checked harness fastenings.
The two roughnecks on either side of Kyra were staring at her. Her face heated even more. “I’m not going to throw up,” she said. The two men frowned, as if they didn’t believe her, and continued to stare. “I’m not!” she insisted.
Clearly not believing her, the two men reluctantly sat back in their seats. Kyra thumped back against her seat in frustration. Already, she could tell this was going to be a very long flight.
Chapter Two
Derrick rubbed the barrel of his gun with a soft cloth—long, slow, careful strokes. Hunter often remarked that it looked more like he was making love to the gun than cleaning it. Well, he supposed Hunter weren’t half wrong—he approached the two activities with the same deliberate, methodical care. After all, anything worth doing was worth doing right.
Now that slingshot was over and they’d reached cruising velocity, boredom would set in. There wasn’t much for him to do between stops—break up scuffles between passengers, make sure the cargo hold stayed tidy, and move the occasional heavy object. Beyond pacing the halls, keeping an eye on the passengers and making visual inspection of the ship, cleaning his guns was the only thing to break the monotony. Techs were too snobby to hobnob with the crew and the roughnecks would stick together, playing cards and drinking. The rest—the private fares—would be too busy with chores and earning their keep to socialize. Sometimes, when she wasn’t busy with her engineering duties, Ivy might come by to play a game or while away the time trading stories of the various shitholes they’d each been stationed to during their careers. Sometimes Vienna would get off her high horse and join them.
He didn’t much mind the boredom—they said having leisure time was a sign that you’d made it in the world, and he was inclined to agree. It was nice having a job that didn’t require him to break his back every waking moment. Besides, port was where all the entertainment was to be had, and they’d be making their first stop soon enough.
A soft sound alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone. His head jerked up. One of the passengers—the curly-haired girl that had tripped coming on board—stood uncertainly in the doorway to the lounge. She was watching him from a pair of the lightest brown eyes he’d ever seen—they looked almost gold-colored.
She didn’t seem to be unnerved by the sight of the gun or annoyed—nor did she seem terribly interested or excited. If he had to put a label to it, he might say mesmerized, but he wasn’t too sure there was anything mesmerizing about him slowly sweeping his hand up and down the barrel over and over.
She finally seemed to realize he was staring at her, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes widened as she lifted them from the gun in his lap to his face and splotchy patches of red broke out all over her face and the area visible above the neckline of her shirt.
He raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he asked. “You comin’ in or not?”
“I…” But she didn’t finish the sentence. She just hovered in the doorway as if undecided. It seemed to be a momentous question for all the wrestling she was doing with it.
He reached out with one boot-clad foot, pressed down on the floor clamp holding a nearby chair in place to release it, and nudged the hard, metal chair in her direction.
This seemed to convince her, and she came forward, though in a manner that suggested a skittish animal. She sidled up to the chair and gingerly lowered herself into it, as if afraid he’d yank it out from under her.
“Hello,” she said.
Her voice was low and soft—not husky, but with a kind of warm, golden timber to it. It was nice. Soothing. It made a nice contrast to Ivy’s hyperactive, non-stop patter and Vienna’s dour, sarcastic drawl.
“I’m looking for the kitchen.”
“This ain’t it.” He went back to cleaning his gun. Giving tourists directions was not part of the job.
She stayed perched on the edge of the seat, clearly ready to bolt, and yet, she didn’t.
He frowned, not sure what had her so nervous. Maybe it was the gun, after all. He held it up. “It ain’t loaded.” When she didn’t say anything or relax, he added, “You’ll be glad of it if we get set on by raiders.”
Her eyes widened slightly, though it seemed more that she was surprised than scared if the confused crease that appeared between her eyebrows was any indication.
He grunted. She certainly was tight-lipped. Did she expect him to make conversation? That, also, was not part of his job.
The silence stretched out, and he frowned. “The kitchen is down the hall—go back to the junction, turn right, and go all the way to the end. You can’t miss it. It’s all the way forward, on the other side of the flight deck.”
She jumped up as if she’d been bitten and made as if to scuttle away but then something happened. Derrick wasn’t quite sure what—everything followed in rapid succession. Somehow, the woman tripped over the leg of her chair. She fell forward, practically into his lap, while the hard metal chair whipped past her and careened into his legs. The resulting jerk of surprise and effort to block/catch her from falling on him sent his gun flying through the air. The girl managed to right herself before completely falling over and stood up and away from him just in time for his gun to come crashing down on his head. He jumped to his feet, smarting from the sharp pain of the rap on the head and went tumbling over the chair she’d sent smashing into his legs. He sprawled head first into the coffee table. The top of his head made contact with the sharp corner, and he felt a slicing pain.
He groaned and sat up, putting a hand to the top of his head. His fingers came away coated in blood. “God damn it!” Stars flashed before his eyes, and he shook his head trying to clear his vision. That just made the throbbing in his head worse.
He glanced up at the girl, wanting to throttle her. “Just what in th
e hell—”
Her mouth was covered with both hands, her eyes as wide as dinner plates as she stared at him in horror.
“I’ll fetch the first aid kit!” she said.
At that moment, Vienna stuck her head in the doorway. “What’s all the commotion?” She took one look at Derrick, sprawled on the floor, blood oozing through the fingers clapped to the top of his head, and burst out laughing.
“It ain’t funny!” he barked.
“What the hell happened?”
“What happened?” he asked, looking at the passenger. “She’s a God-damned menace is what happened!”
The woman backed away. To her credit, she did look horrified, and now that the initial shock was wearing off, he felt a little bad for yelling at her. Before he could apologize, though, she turned, pushed past Vienna, and fled down the hall.
Vienna hadn’t stopped laughing.
“Christ,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He swayed slightly as pain dug into his head like a drill.
“Come on,” Vienna said, suppressing a grin as she motioned for him to precede her out the door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Kyra hovered in the doorway of the communal kitchen and pressed a hand to her stomach as she took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Humiliation still burned in her cheeks from the mortifying scene with Derrick. He’d looked at her like she was something unsavory he’d stepped in when she’d entered the lounge, and now—well, now he thought she was a lunatic. Why was she such a klutz? Not that it mattered. Men like him—big, strong, self-assured, and self-reliant—never gave her a second look. She didn’t blame them—she was small and quiet without any discernable skills; she wasn’t a mechanic, a soldier, a pilot, a doctor. She was easy to overlook until she drew attention with one of her catastrophic mishaps. And then… well, then men of any ilk tended to steer well clear of her.
She could only hope that New Dominica would be different. On a big, prosperous world like that, she was sure to find a place where she fit in. Out here in the settlements and the vast interstellar shipping lanes between them, every life was a potential liability—a drain on scarce food, water, and oxygen if that person didn’t contribute more with a critical skillset or a strong back than they consumed. Kyra had neither critical skills nor a strong back. But on a First World where resources were plentiful and the populace prosperous, there were more choices and more avenues for making one’s way in life.
If she could master a skill that would get her a job.
Ivy was barely discernable at the central cook station above a towering stack of dirty mixing bowls and a cloud of thick smoke that billowed from a pot on the stove.
“Uh… hi?” said Kyra tentatively, not wanting to startle Ivy who was frantically fanning her hands to clear the smoke.
“Oh, hi!” Ivy gave her a wan smile that was equal parts worry and dismay.
“What happened?
“Me. I happened.” Ivy heaved a resigned sigh. “It was my turn to make dinner and… well, as you can see…”
“Do you need a hand?”
“I would love some help,” Ivy replied, sagging with relief. “Re-Con meal packs are supposed to be easy, but I never manage to get them right.”
Kyra smiled ear to ear. “Don’t worry. I can probably save it.” At last! Something she was good at.
She crossed the room and came to a stop beside Ivy. She peered at the scorched remnants in the various pots. “What were you making?”
“Roasted chicken.”
Kyra couldn’t keep from laughing. She ducked her head to hide the laughter, lest she hurt Ivy’s feelings.
Ivy laughed, too. “It’s okay. It is funny. The worst part is that I’m the best cook we’ve got! Vienna and Derrick aren’t even allowed to touch the stove.”
“Well, I think some of this is salvageable. We can probably save some of the meat, and we’ll just use it in a stew since it’s a bit dry.” A bit dry was being charitable. The rectangle of synthetic bio-protein was hard as a brick. Re-constituted meal packs consisted of dehydrated foods that were reconstituted with water prior to cooking. Once the water was added to the various components, it was supposed to be indistinguishable from fresh food. Only, that was never the case. At best, it was bland and mushy. Preparers often compensated by reducing the amount of water they added, but this left the food still partially dehydrated. If you then attempted to cook with it… well, the result tended to be akin to jerky—if it didn’t scorch and catch on fire.
“We can probably save some of these vegetables, too. Since they’re already cooked, we’ll add those last. Here…” Kyra began moving pots and pans from the cook surface to the sink. “Let’s clear these out of the way. Do you have a kettle or big stock pot?”
Ivy turned to a bank of cupboards and found the stew pot. Kyra, meanwhile, grabbed a nearby knife and went to work saving what she could from the meat.
Ivy watched her silently; Kyra could feel the other woman’s eyes studying her nimble fingers as they deftly sliced and chopped. She braced herself for the barrage of questions she knew were coming next.
“Wow, you’re really good at that.” There was a thoughtful pause.
Here it comes, Kyra thought.
“So, how’d you end up on New Mustique?”
Kyra’s mouth twisted down in a thoughtful frown as she weighed how much to tell Ivy. It wasn’t that it was a huge secret or even all that shameful. It was more the pity that came to people’s eyes when they knew.
“Third child,” she said, the words coming out more curtly than she’d intended. She kept chopping, moving the knife in a smooth staccato rhythm that matched the dread mounting inside her.
“Oh,” said Ivy, her eyes widening in surprise. “I’m really sorry…”
The other woman trailed off and looked uncomfortable. Kyra didn’t blame her. Most settlements had a strict two child policy; resources were limited and most were too new, too unstable, to support population growth. Newborns over the limit were sent off-world to the nearest colonies—developments that had stabilized and were expanding. These “Second Worlds” tended to grow so quickly there were always population shortages, and they welcomed the unwanted settlement babies. Mid-range interstellar transports like the Mercy became floating orphanages as they moved the children from settlement to colony, a trip that could take years depending on the distance.
Kyra couldn’t really complain—everyone she’d been passed to had done their best. It had been a four-year journey from New Sabu, the settlement where she was born, to New Trinidad, the closest developed colony. The roughnecks who crewed the long-haul transport had done their best to keep her alive—they’d fed her and clothed her, at least. There had been kicks and cuffs when she was under foot or cried, so she’d learned to stay out of sight and not ask for much.
The orphanage on New Trinidad had been better than life in space in that the food had been nicer. But New Trinidad was still only a colony, not a First World, so life there was hard—a constant battle against entropy and want. At age six, she’d been old enough to apprentice out. The next fifteen years had been a blur of rising at the crack of dawn and falling into bed at midnight with the intervening hours full of embarrassing failures and stinging criticisms. She didn’t resent the crew leaders. Life was hard in the colonies—her mentors had needed her to be hard, too.
They’d tried her at a lot of trades, but the only thing she seemed skilled at was cooking—and there wasn’t a lot of call for expert chefs in a colony. There weren’t any restaurants, no wealthy patrons with their own private cooks, no caterers, not even sidewalk carts selling prepared foods. The most she could look forward to on New Trinidad was a life of menial labor—except she was far too small and far too clumsy to be any good even at that. And what man would want a partner that brought no useful skills and no earnings potential to the marriage? She’d faced a lonely, hopeless future there.
So she’d scrimped and saved, bartered and traded, and finally managed to afford
transport off of New Trinidad, making her way to New Curacao. But there hadn’t been work for her there, either. Unlike New Trinidad, New Curacao was a thriving Second World. However, it had a stable population and a stable economy; the number of jobs equaled the number of workers, and they didn’t need any imported labor. So she’d scrimped and saved and bartered and traded for the ticket that got her to New Mustique, but there hadn’t been any jobs there either. So, finally, she’d scrimped and saved and bartered and traded some more for a ticket that got her onto the Mercy, bound for New Dominica, where, hopefully, job prospects would be better. New Dominica was a First World—big, old, and prosperous. It had restaurants and theaters and cruise ships and rich folks with private staffs. Surely, there would be a job for a chef there.
She’d been so lost in her reverie that she’d been chopping the same piece of chicken over and over until it resembled grains of rice. She flushed in embarrassment. She tossed down the knife and scooped up a handful of the meat. She snuck a glance at Ivy to see what she must think of the hash job she was making of the simple task of chopping chicken.
Ivy didn’t seem to much notice—she was watching the whole process in fascination. Thankfully, Ivy didn’t seem much inclined to ask further about Kyra’s background.
Kyra quickly scooped all of the shredded chicken into the empty pot. “Do you have any stock or broth?”
Ivy shook her head. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay—we can make our own from the burnt bits. This will just take a bit longer is all.” Kyra moved the pot with the chicken aside. She looked around for another pot to use. Ivy quickly grabbed one from a nearby cupboard and handed it to her.
Kyra filled the pot with water and then added all the overcooked re-con vegetables and burnt chicken bits.
“Salt?”
Ivy handed her the container. Kyra added a generous helping to the mix. “Okay, well, that’s a start. We’ll let this simmer for an hour and then strain out the solids. That will give us some stock for the stew. Now, if I can get to my crates—” She’d asked the captain if the crates could be moved in here; he’d told her to ask Derrick. That was why she’d stopped in the lounge. Before she’d been able to ask, though, the mortifying mishap had occurred. Now she was too embarrassed to ask him; she’d just move items from the cargo hold to the mess a few at a time by herself.
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