Starflight

by Melissa Landers

  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.

  Kane scratched the back of his neck and took a sudden interest in his shoes. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with your servant.…”

  “Oh.” Now she understood. “Not the kind you’re thinking of.” She’d rather sleep with the crusty old captain than share a bed with Doran. “It’s not a problem. He can take the floor.”

  Satisfied, Kane turned back down the hallway and climbed the steps to the bridge at the top level. This area was narrower than down below, its ceiling tapered to a point so the only place she could stand without hunching over was in the middle of the room. To the left, a tall brown-haired man with glasses teetering on the tip of his nose was bent over a metal table that had been fused to the wall. About thirty years old, he appeared to be studying solar charts.

  He met her gaze and grinned—a real smile that reflected in his eyes. It’d been so long since Solara had seen a gleam of genuine kindness that her heart melted, and she liked him at once.

  “This is Lawrence,” Kane said, lifting a hand toward the man. “Our first mate.”

  “Call me Renny,” the man told her. He pointed at his charts. “I was just plotting a course to the Obsidian Beaches. The captain said your final destination is the fringe, but he didn’t specify where.”

  “Vega,” she said, and leaned in to look at his charts. She recognized the Solar Territories from interstellar geography class. The Milky Way was divided like a dartboard into four sectors with Earth as the bull’s-eye and five rings moving out from it. The tourist rings were the closest, then came the colony planets, ore mines, and prison settlements, in that order. The Solar League headquarters were on Earth, along with most of the galaxy’s industry and wealth, so the farther away you traveled, the more rustic the surroundings. The fifth ring was the fringe, or the outer realm, which the government hadn’t annexed yet. She tapped a spot on the chart and told him, “Vega’s in the same sector as Obsidian, but a few rungs out.”

  “Good. That shouldn’t be too—”

  “Kane!” interrupted a shrill feminine voice that carried up the stairs so loudly it rattled a loose bolt in the floor. “You scum-eating son of a crotch smuggler!” Footsteps clattered up the metal planks, but Kane didn’t seem concerned. He crossed one foot over the other and studied his fingernails. “I’ll have your guts for bootlaces!”

  “Go ahead!” he shouted. “But you’ll have to reach up my ass to get them!”

  Solara retreated a pace until her back met the wall. She braced herself, waiting for the owner of that enormous voice to appear, but a tiny young woman stepped onto the bridge, wearing a bathrobe that dragged on the ground. No taller than Kane’s shoulder, the girl craned her neck to glower at him. Her tawny complexion and long blond dreadlocks were nearly identical to his, but dripping water onto the floor. Solara wondered if the two were siblings.

  “You took my laser blade again,” the girl shouted. “My only day for a shower, and now I can’t shave!”

  “I didn’t touch your blade.”

  “Really?” The girl stood on tiptoe and scrutinized his jaw. “Then where’s the dandelion fuzz that usually grows on your chin?”

  Kane sighed. “Fine. I used it yesterday.”

  “I knew it!”

  “But I put it back in your shower caddy.” Kane gripped his hips. “I didn’t bother asking, because I knew you’d never let me have it.”

  The girl curled one hand into a fist and shook it menacingly. “I’ll let you have it.”

  “Check your caddy, you lunatic!”

  “I told you, it’s not there! The only other person—”

  Suddenly the argument came to a halt and all eyes shifted to Lawrence, who blushed and dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “Renny,” the girl said. “Turn out your pockets.”

  The first mate dug into his pockets and emptied two handfuls of odds and ends onto the table—casino chips, a wristwatch, mismatched earrings, key fobs, dice, folded pieces of paper, and a pink laser blade.

  He offered a sheepish grin. “Sorry. You know I can’t help it.”

  The girl stomped forward and snatched her blade off the table. Then she flung her wet dreadlocks behind her and set off down the stairs.

  “Hey,” Kane called after her. “You owe me an apology!” When she didn’t respond, he jutted his chin at the pile of knickknacks on the table. “Is that my watch?”

  “I don’t know.” Renny handed it over. “Probably.”

  Kane raised the item for show and told Solara, “There’s a lockbox in your quarters. I suggest you use it, because Renny’s got sticky fingers.” He pointed down the stairs. “And that delightful girl is Cassia, the other ship hand.”

  “Is she your sister?” Solara asked.

  He barked a laugh. “God, no. I’d hang myself.”

  Renny lifted an object from the table and inspected it beneath the light. Inky black and flawlessly round, it might resemble a marble to someone who hadn’t trained for several years as a mechanic. But Solara knew what it was.

  “Is that the Banshee’s tracker?” she asked. “Removed from its port?”

  Renny and Kane shared a knowing look before the first mate tucked the item back inside his pocket. “Yes,” he said. “It’s broken.”

  Solara didn’t believe him. Trackers withstood even the worst collisions, and it was illegal to remove one from its designated port. The only reason to do that was if someone didn’t want to be found. Not that she was complaining. She didn’t want to be found, either. But regardless, she resolved to bolt her bedroom door that night.

  Clearly she wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  Dinner consisted of dried beans stewed in rehydrated tomatoes. Solara could tell the food was reconstituted because of the rare times when farmers had donated fresh, albeit half-rotted, produce to the diocese. Even bruised and overripe, tomatoes in their natural state were bursting with a sweetness and tang that the dehydrating process couldn’t capture. Still, she ate her supper without complaining. It was better than soy-meal, a cheap oat hybrid that tasted like dishwater.

  The captain frowned at the untouched bowl of beans next to hers. “Where’s your indenture? Everyone eats—”

  “Together,” she finished, avoiding his black gaze. She’d discerned that his eyes were real, but looking into them still made her uneasy. “I told him.”

  Doran joined them soon afterward, announ
cing his presence by dropping a sack of fuel chips on the floor. “It’s all there,” he said, and blew out a breath. “Ten thousand. I counted them myself.”

  “Counted them?” the captain asked. “Why didn’t you use the machine?”

  Doran froze. “What machine?”

  “The trading scale,” Kane supplied from the far end of the bench. “We’d never get anything done if we hand-counted chips. I told Lara about it.”

  While Doran glared at her, Solara explained, “But they’re not always calibrated just right. I wanted to make sure the captain has his due.”

  With a disbelieving grunt, Doran took his seat. He glanced at his beans and then peered around the table as if looking for something. “Where’s the main course?”

  “This is it,” she said.

  “But there’s no meat.”

  Solara turned to face him, stunned by the sense of entitlement that transcended his memory loss. It must be nice to afford so much animal protein that he expected to have it served at every supper. “If it’s not to your liking,” she told him, “the rest of us can divide your share.”

  Clearly he was hungry, because he curled a protective arm around his bowl.

  “Now that we’re all here, we can get started,” the captain said. “Whose turn is it?”

  “For what?” Doran asked.

  “To ask ‘would you rather,’” Cassia said, blotting her lips with a cloth napkin. “We play every night.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist and turned to Kane. “Would you rather know the date of your death or the cause of it?”

  “Can I change the circumstances of my death?” Kane asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then the date,” Kane quickly decided. “What’s the point of knowing the cause if I can’t change anything? That’s a weak question.”

  Solara agreed with him, but she wasn’t about to say so and risk Cassia’s wrath. When it came to venom, the scorpions in Texas had nothing on this girl.

  “Some people might want to know,” Cassia argued. “So they’re not always worrying about it.”

  “Who wastes their time worrying about how they’re going to croak?” Kane shoveled a heaping spoonful of beans into his mouth and spoke with one cheek full. “Weak.”