Starflight

by Melissa Landers

  “None of that,” Doran whispered back.

  “Good man.” Four-Eyes gave a respectful nod. “Bare fists, it is!” he announced to the crowd below, eliciting a chorus of cheers.

  Demarkus rested one meaty palm on Doran’s shoulder, then gave it an encouraging shake that rattled his teeth. “Excellent choice. That’s how a real man fights.” He lowered his head and murmured, “I like your spirit, boy. I’m going to try not to kill you.”

  If that was supposed to make Doran feel better, it didn’t work.

  Demarkus strode off toward the boxing ring, leaving Doran to face Solara. She rushed forward and grabbed him by the upper arms. Her fingernails bit through his shirt, but the contact barely registered. Soon he would know real pain.

  “Are you insane?” she screeched. “He’ll kill you!”

  The wires in Doran’s brain must’ve crossed because that made him laugh. “Not on purpose.”

  “Call it off. I’ll get out of here some other way.”

  Doran sobered up then, focusing on her eyes—not the bruises staining her skin, but the rings of color where her honeyed irises morphed into green. “If you manage to escape,” he said, “and that’s a big if, it won’t be tonight—your wedding night. Do you think marriage is a joke to this guy? He’s going to…you know…” Doran’s gaze faltered for a moment. “Expect things from you.”

  Solara’s eyes flashed. “I can defend my own virtue, thank you very much. Anyway, it’s not like that. He wants me in the engine room, not his bed. He only married me so I’d have to stay.”

  “That’s not much better,” Doran said. “Look around. Do you feel safe?”

  “I’ll figure out a—”

  “Damn it, Solara. If I don’t do this, you could be stuck here forever. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me fight him.” He shook her off before she had a chance to fuss at him again. “I know I’ve got no shot against this guy. But I can’t just walk out of here and leave you.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he scrubbed it away with his shirtsleeve. “You’re the one who said I could be decent if I wanted to, so quit trying to talk me out of it. I’m about to piss myself as it is, and you’re not helping.”

  Solara chewed on her bottom lip. Just when it seemed she was about to argue, she told him, “Men his size are slow. Guard your face and stay light on your feet. Hit the soft parts—belly, kidneys, throat—not the face, or you’ll break your knuckles. You won’t knock him out, but maybe you can wear him down and trip him. Then kick him in the head before he gets up. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty.”

  Doran nodded, taking it all in. With that strategy, winning the fight almost sounded possible. Or at least that’s what he told himself when he turned and joined Demarkus inside the ring.

  As soon as he crossed the threshold, a buzz of electricity sounded behind him—invisible ropes to lock him in. While Demarkus secured his long hair in a ponytail, Four-Eyes stood outside the ring and hollered to the crowd, “Witnesses, give heed!” The room quieted, and he went on. “This is a formal challenge of bare-fisted combat brought by Daro the Red against Demarkus Hahn for dissolution of marriage. There are no moves barred, and the last man standing wins.” He addressed his chief and bowed.

  Demarkus flexed his long fingers and bent his head to the side, cracking his neck. He rolled both shoulders and nodded as if to signal his readiness. Doran figured he should probably loosen up, too, but it was all he could do to keep his wobbling knees locked. The smile had left his opponent’s face, and now Demarkus approached in sure steps, his fists raised and ready to strike.

  Doran shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in an attempt to dodge the first blow, but a flash of skin blurred in front of him and connected with his left eye. Like whiplash, his head jerked back, sending him flailing for balance. The pain came next, a dull throb around his eye socket that he barely had time to register before another jab sent him tumbling to the floor. He landed hard on his ass, a jolt ricocheting up his tailbone.

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  What the hell was that? He thought big men were supposed to be slow.

  “Get up,” Demarkus snapped. His brow was stern, his tone scolding. “They’re mocking you. Get on your feet!”

  Doran pushed onto all fours and stood up, which lasted for half a second. One right hook to the jaw and he was back on the planks with spots dancing in his vision. This time Demarkus didn’t bother telling him to stand up. He reached down and lifted Doran by the shirt until the soles of his boots met the floor.

  With his mouth pressed to Doran’s ear, the pirate whispered, “C’mon, boy. I can’t keep going easy on you, or I’ll lose the respect of my men.”

  This was taking it easy on him?

  “Fight back,” Demarkus said. “You should be hitting me right now.”

  Curling his hand into a fist, Doran grunted and delivered an uppercut to the belly. His knuckles met the tension of flexed abdominal muscles, and Demarkus pulled back and gave him a disappointed look that said, Is that all you’ve got?

  “Where’s your fire?” the man asked, shaking Doran’s shirt. Then his gaze focused on something in the background, and a calculating smile curved his lips. “I can see Lara. She looks worried for you.”

  A spark of anger ignited in Doran’s belly. He pushed against the pirate’s chest.

  “She’s a talented girl,” Demarkus said. “A rare find in these parts. I hope you won’t miss her too badly, because she’s going to love it here. Soon she’ll forget you ever existed.”

  Without thinking, Doran head-butted Demarkus in the mouth, then shoved him backward and punched him directly above the groin. Rage took control, humming all over his skin and making him numb. He hit the man again and again, anywhere he could reach, until one giant fist to the chest knocked Doran down. Only then did he notice the blood trickling over Demarkus’s chin.

  He’d done it. Doran had drawn first blood.

  Demarkus smiled as if he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, and then the fight was on—in earnest. Doran scrambled up from the floor and charged the giant, landing a shoulder in his midsection. Demarkus brought down a hammer of a fist onto Doran’s back, flattening him with ease. As soon as his belly met the floor, Doran rolled aside and avoided a kick to the gut. But he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the next punch, a thunder jab to his good eye.

  After that, Doran spent the match ducking and running with minimal success. He peered at his aggressor through the cracks of his swollen eyelids and the stinging sweat that blurred his vision. He couldn’t see his periphery, and Demarkus must’ve known it because three left hooks came in a row. Doran pushed onto his feet only to tense for the next hit—to the mouth, the nose, the stomach. No part of him was safe. At one point, Doran took a blow to the head so hard he saw the future.

  And he wasn’t in it.

  He began to realize this strategy wouldn’t work. He couldn’t match his opponent in strength or speed, so attempting to wear him down and trip him was a waste of time. To win the fight, he’d have to find Demarkus’s greatest weakness and exploit it. Doran knew the man was arrogant, but how could he use that to his advantage?

  To buy himself a few seconds to think, he executed some basic football drills, faking left and darting right while he decided what to do next. He kept hearing Solara’s advice inside his head. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty. His instincts told him that was the key, but how?

  Another punch clipped Doran’s jaw with enough force to send him back to the planks, where he bounced twice and landed faceup. The adrenaline began to wear off, allowing a torrent of pain to swallow him whole. His face throbbed like an overinflated balloon. Hot blood flowed over his mouth, and when he darted a tongue over his lips, it slid between a cleft of missing flesh. A selfish part of him wished he could pass out so his suffering would end.

  Then an idea came to mind.

  He could pass out, or at least make it look that way.<
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  With an extra-loud groan, he rolled onto all fours and swayed back and forth, even gagging for effect. He stood from the hard planks and immediately let himself tilt to the side until he stumbled back to the floor. Then after one more feeble attempt to rise, he went limp as a noodle and gave up the fight. Almost at once, he heard Demarkus’s throaty chortle, followed by the crowd’s roar of applause for the victor, their chief.

  While the hall erupted in celebration, Doran kept both eyes closed and waited for the planks to stir beneath him. When he felt the thump of footsteps, he snuck a peek at Demarkus’s boots and noticed they faced the opposite direction.

  Now was the time to come alive.

  He belly-crawled a few inches toward Demarkus, who was too busy pumping his arms in the air to notice anything else. Doran glanced up at the juncture of his opponent’s widespread legs, pleased to find that Demarkus had left his weakest spot unprotected.

  Arrogance, Doran thought, grinning.

  He pushed himself onto one elbow while tensing his opposite fist. A few of the men watching from outside the ring had begun to catch on. They pointed wild fingers at him and shouted at their chief in warning. Doran knew he couldn’t wait another second. Drawing on all his strength, he thrust his arm straight up and punched his enemy in a vulnerable place that made all men weaklings. His knuckles connected with a satisfying pop, and at once, Demarkus bent at the waist as if an invisible hand had chopped him in half. In slow motion, his massive frame tipped over and landed on the electric ropes. There was a long crackle of energy, followed by the stench of burnt hair, and Demarkus went rigid as he fought to untangle himself. The pain had clearly made him clumsy because it took three tries before he managed to stagger free.

  Doran jumped to his feet and quickly pushed Demarkus back onto the ropes. When the man eventually rebounded, Doran was there to deliver another shove—and then another. Each time, the voltage seemed to drain Demarkus a little more, until his head lolled from side to side and his body began to sway. Then, clenching one fist, Doran wound up and punched Demarkus hard enough to send him to the floor with a loud clatter that shook the planks.

  The crowd fell silent, and the electric ropes shorted out.

  Keeping a wary distance, Doran crept near enough to study his opponent’s face—lids shut, lips parted by slow, deep breaths. He didn’t know if Demarkus was playing dead or truly out cold, so he stripped off his belt and used it to secure the man’s wrists behind his back. Only then did he rise and face the crowd, lifting an arm to declare himself the last man standing.

  Nobody cheered.

  A thousand pirates blinked at him, then turned to peer at one another in confusion. Hands settled briefly on pistols before drifting up to scratch their owners’ heads. The reaction told Doran that they didn’t know what to do. Should they honor the victory of an outsider, a boy who’d won by trickery, or avenge their leader?

  Solara must’ve noticed their indecision, too, because she snatched a pulse pistol from the nearest hip and started waving it around. “Stand down,” she shouted at the crowd. “According to your rules, no moves were barred. My pilot won his challenge. You’re bound by Brethren law to let us go.” She tossed her gold necklace onto Demarkus’s body, then pointed the gun at Four-Eyes. “You. Drop your weapon and come here.”

  The guard obeyed.

  She pressed the muzzle to his back and ordered, “Tell your crew to make a hole. You’re going to lead us to the hangar, and if anyone moves on me or my pilot, I’ll ventilate your chest.”

  Four-Eyes seemed to hesitate, but then he raised both hands and begrudgingly told everyone to clear the way. Like molasses on a pancake, the spectators drifted toward the edges of the great hall and opened a path to the exit, never taking their eyes off Solara. She gave the guard a nudge and followed as he began a cautious stride through the room. Doran fell into place behind her. His eyes had swollen nearly shut, making it impossible to watch the crowd, so he fixed his gaze on Four-Eyes and let Solara scan the others.

  Doran’s heart thumped while they crossed the floor. Every sound made him flinch, each cough triggering his anticipation of an attack. The journey to the corridor seemed to last a thousand years, and when they crossed the threshold into the hallway, he released a long breath.

  “Shut those doors,” Solara told him. “And bolt them if you can.”

  He did as she asked. There was no bolt, so he removed his jacket and tied the sleeves in a sloppy knot around the door handles. It wouldn’t hold the crew if they decided to follow, but it might slow them down a bit.

  They jogged to the hangar, where Solara ordered the guard to remain inside the control room and open the hatch after they’d boarded their shuttle. She pointed to a box mounted on the hangar ceiling and warned, “If anything goes wrong, I’ll start taking shots at your air pump. Are we clear?”

  Four-Eyes set his jaw and nodded.

  “And since we obeyed your laws, there’s no reason to follow.”

  “No one will come after you,” the guard said, then glared at her and clarified, “Today.”

  That was good enough for Doran. He ran to the shuttle and climbed through the passenger door. “You’ll have to fly,” he told Solara. He could barely see well enough to fasten his safety harness. “Try not to break my other arm.”

  She took the pilot’s seat and flipped on the ignition. “I told you. I can fly just fine.”

  “And land?”

  “Shh,” she dismissed him while lifting off. “One crisis at a time.”

  Solara held her breath as she eased the shuttle toward the Banshee’s docking station. She cast a longing glance at the switch to dispatch the magnetic tow cables, wishing she could use them to pull her into position. But Doran had insisted that she land on her own. You’ll do fine, he’d said. If you can hold a room full of pirates at gunpoint, then you can land a two-person craft.

  She gripped the wheel and asked, “How’s this?”

  Doran peered out the side window. “Good. Now tap your starboard thruster to bring us around a bit.”

  She did as he’d suggested. The shuttle rotated into perfect alignment and drifted near the ship. A few slow seconds later, the shuttle nested into place with a slight jolt that shook Solara and Doran in their seats. An automatic smile formed on Solara’s lips. She’d performed her first landing without breaking any bones.

  “I did it!”

  “Told you,” Doran gloated while unbuckling his harness. He opened the side hatch and pointed at the propellant cell. “Let’s celebrate inside. I’d like to put a few solar systems behind us before morning.”

  “Good plan,” she agreed. They’d kicked a hornet’s nest tonight, and the Brethren didn’t strike her as the forgiving sort. Still, her chin lifted as she followed Doran inside the ship. She felt more like an action hero than a mechanic. She wished Sister Agnes could see her now.

  The bounce in Doran’s step told her he was riding the same high, but she had no idea exactly how high until he spun around and scooped her into a hug that lifted both her boots off the floor. She stiffened while his laughter rang in her ears, a sound of pure exhilaration she’d never heard from him before, not even during football season at the academy. His reaction forced a giggle out of her, and she told herself the tingly sensation unfurling inside her belly was nothing more than adrenaline.

  “We were amazing back there,” he said, and set her down. He kept both hands on her hips and pulled back to look at her through one swollen eye. “Can you believe it?”

  At the sight of him in the overhead lighting, her smile died and her tingles morphed into sympathy pains. The darkness inside the shuttle had concealed the extent of his injuries, but now she could see that his eyes were nothing more than slits, and the bottom half of his face was covered in a macabre beard of dried blood. She could only imagine how badly he would hurt once the rush wore off.

  Guilt swam over her. This was her fault.

  “Do I look that bad?” he asked.


  She winced as a cut reopened in his lower lip, but then she reminded herself that Doran’s happiness was the only silver lining in this cloud. He’d done something remarkable tonight, shown more bravery than she’d ever thought possible, and she refused to rob him of that. “I hate to break it to you,” she said. “But you’re not the prettiest girl in the room anymore.”

  He chuckled. “Give me time.”

  “Go ahead and laugh.” She studied the crooked angle of his nose, which was undoubtedly broken. “Because you’re going to feel this in the morning.”

  “Hell, I feel it now,” he said, bringing a hand to his ribs. “But who cares? I actually knocked him out. First person to challenge Demarkus in five years, and I won.”

  Her heart twisted at the memory of Doran lying on the floor, blood pouring from his mouth while she watched helplessly from outside the ring. She hadn’t known it was a trick. She’d thought he was dead, and fear had gutted her like a fish. The flashback made her vision go blurry, so she dropped her gaze to his boots. Even those were smeared with red. “Sorry for doubting you.”

  “Well, don’t sound so excited,” he muttered. “All I did was bring down a giant with my bare hands.”

  “A giant who could have killed you.” She glanced up to find him frowning at her. “All because I put on that stupid necklace.”

  “You didn’t know any better.”

  “No, but I should have. Nothing comes for free in life—not food or land or clothes, and especially not gold. Deep down I knew it was too good to be true, but I took the necklace anyway. And you paid for my mistake, Doran. You could have died.”

  He didn’t answer at first. He waited until she met his gaze, then flashed a grin that softened the edges of her guilt. “I’m fine, really. This is surface damage. My devilish good looks aren’t lost forever.”

  “Demarkus hurt you.”

  “Yeah, but I gave it back,” Doran said. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s probably still looking for his left nut.”