Stowaway (Star Line Express Romance Book 1)

by Alessia Bowman

  I’m walking even faster now, then I start trotting. The ship has calmed down and I’m afraid that can’t be good news. Like it’s settled in before it completely disintegrates. With the equatorial stabilizer shot to hell and the way the ship’s been reacting, its end is closing in on us. Rapidly.

  “I didn’t do it!” she says. “And you know that.”

  “Well, now I know it,” I say. “But then, I didn’t. Then I thought you were not just the most likely candidate but the absolute only candidate for the position of saboteur. And I thought that when you were confronted with your own death, you’d have to fix things.”

  “You bastard! And I thought I was in love with you!”

  The ship is moaning now, a chillingly eerie sound, so I take off running and Aymee does the same.

  We get to our destination, which is the chamber behind the captain’s quarters. This is where the emergency raft should be. I make a fist, put my other hand on the portal for balance, and employ the same method Joston Parst used during one of his most treacherous of treacheries, slamming my fist into the lock, while I release my held breath.

  Just because someone in a fictional account of an absurd incident used this method doesn’t mean it’s going to work for me. Even if the ship’s portal closures, not part of the redesign, are old as hell. Didn’t good old Joston give it one good punch and it opened?

  Yet one punch isn’t enough.

  And, I think as I hurl my fist into the lock a few more times, there’s a possibility that Zav himself used this raft, in which case . . . But I can’t think that. I have to think that Zav used the raft the crew on the bridge would use. Must have used.

  “All right, Aymee, now’s the time to trot out your hypercalculation skills,” I say between hammer blows.

  “Ready,” she says.

  Her body is tensed, like she’s at the starting-off point of a crucial race. Actually, she is. We both are. Or the end point. They’re the same right now.

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t utterly despise you,” she says, in case I haven’t been paying attention to the fury in her gray-green eyes.

  I pull my arm back and think Joston-like thoughts, and my last punch does the trick. The lock’s destroyed, the portal opens, and I’m more than relieved to see the emergency raft, right where it should be.

  “You bastard!” Aymee says again, in case I didn’t hear her the first time. “This was here all along and you could have killed us! Killed me!”

  “You’re going to have to get off that line of thinking for a bit.”

  “Is that what Joston did?” she says, pointing to my now-aching hand. “Break open a lock with his fist? The stupid brute.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” I say. Because it did work. And without my Joston-enhanced knowledge of such stupid, brutish tactics, I might not’ve considered doing this.

  “Give Joston credit where it’s due,” I say as I open the pod’s hatch. The thing is tiny—it’s meant for only one person, the captain, but Aymee and I will both fit, I’m pretty sure.

  If not, Aymee will fit. I only hope she’ll be able to figure out how to fly the thing, since the emergency raft was built for use by a skilled officer, not a Chorynean stowaway. Even one who’s an engineer.

  “You knew about this all along,” she says.

  “But it might not have been here,” I say.

  “But it is!”

  “Get in,” I say.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” she says. “I’m not getting in that thing by myself.”

  “You got into the Centreale by yourself,” I say, reminding her of the way all this started.

  “That was different.”

  “Yeah, then you were stowing away. Now you’re just trying to save your hide. Get in.”

  Before she has a chance to start another argument, I pick her up and put her in through the hatch. Then I look down into the pod. There is enough room for me—just.

  “Move aside,” I say as I wedge myself down into the tiny craft beside her. She moves.

  “Start calculating,” I say, closing the hatch, locking it, checking it again, and then pointing to the fuel supply.

  “Got it,” she says.

  As the Centreale moans again and proceeds to shivering in what I assume is its death rattle, I start the emergency raft’s propulsion mechanism.

  “There?” I say, pointing to the map, “or there?” I point to the other possible destination.

  “There,” she says, pointing to the second place on the map. “We won’t make it any farther. I’m not sure we can make it to there. But I think we should.”

  I had a terrible feeling we wouldn’t make it to Gadnon. Not that I like the dark, ugly place or would ever want to go there again. But it’d be a lot easier on Aymee Desryx.

  Since she’s a wanted criminal at our destination. Just like Joston Parst was.

  “Hold on,” I say, and she grabs hold of my arm, the nearest thing to hold on to. I’m holding on to the controls and my nerves. It’s kind of cozy here in the raft, I think while our lives teeter on the edge of destruction.

  I let the raft loose from the ship and we’re given a little extra help as the Centreale coughs up its last, giving us a further push into the galactic soup.

  Our little pod shudders in waves as the Centreale implodes in our wake.

  Aymee

  My hypercalculation skills might have been useful for figuring out the nearest port, but they’re useless to figure out how I got myself into this mess.

  Still, I try to sort out the elements, the variables, the unknowns, and construct, tear down, and reconstruct several imaginary equations.

  First on the list is Lasson Birtak. No, cross that off. First on the list is the Chorynean government, the perpetrator of the strict match protocols. I’ve put them at the base of the pyramid I’m building for this set of calculations. They’re the prime cause.

  Next—now it’s time for Lasson Birtak. If only he’d been a reasonable male, he would have come with me to the whoever-it-is who’s in charge of this life mate matching-up and helped to explain why we were just wrong for each other.

  While I’m trying to sort these things out, First Officer Niklas Arca has put his arm around my shoulders and I’m leaning into him as though I’ve forgiven him for risking our lives even further than they were already risked. For not heading straight for this emergency escape pod and getting us the hell out of there without the unnecessary detour into the engine room.

  “Cole would’ve won, you know,” Arca says, reading my thoughts and defending himself. “He’d be on the ship right now.”

  “Yes, and we’d be far away. Somewhere safe.”

  Nik winces—I guess his head’s still bothering him—so I lay off my next salvo of blame and recriminations.

  “But you didn’t know it was Cole!” I say. “You thought it was me.”

  “True enough,” he says, “although I was having a hard time with the why of it. I’d narrowed down my choices to something about those crates of oranges. That maybe you were involved somehow.”

  “Oranges?” I say. “What oranges?”

  “We’re—we were, when there was still a ship—carrying a shipment of Chorynean oranges. Among other things.”

  He snuggles me closer to him.

  “Would it have been so terrible if Cole had taken over the ship and we hadn’t had to wait until the last second to get out of there?”

  “No point thinking about it now. We’re safe. The ship’s gone.”

  “Your cargo is destroyed.”

  “Yes, there’s that.”

  I go back to my calculations. Chorynean law, Lasson Birtak—what’s next. Oh. Me. I could’ve just agreed to be Lasson’s life mate. He has that beautiful house. And he himself is rather nice. I just, well, then I didn’t even know what I just. Now that I know.

  I sigh.

  “There’s no room in here,” Arca says.

  “For what?” I say, thinking that there’s hardly any roo
m in here for us, much less anything else. I hook my leg over his, enjoying the solid feel of his muscular thigh under mine.

  “For what I’d like to do right now,” he says. “And I suspect that you do as well.”

  I refuse to give him the satisfaction of agreeing, even though it is what I’d like to do right now. I toy with the fabric of his torn shirt and go back to my calculations.

  But I’m afraid the pyramid I’ve been building is about to topple over, because as huge and strong-seeming as the base of Chorynean law is, the decisions I’ve made in the last day are starting to pile up and crush what’s underneath.

  Rushing away without a plan, without supplies, without thought. Jumping on board the Centreale, not even knowing what kind of ship it was, where it was going, and how long it was going to take to get there. Or what I would do, how I would survive while it was doing it.

  Hiding in the hot box, of all places. Lying the first chance I got—saying my name was Salana—thereby setting the stage for the Big World Terran to think that all I was capable of was more lying.

  Being overwhelmed by lust.

  And worse.

  Falling in love.

  Not being able to fix the equatorial stabilizer. Not realizing early on that the sabotage was most likely being done by the ship’s engineer—who else would have known what to do or how to do it? No one.

  And . . . and . . . and . . . now . . .

  No. No way.

  “We are not going there,” I say, when I realize where we’re going.

  Chapter 23

  Niklas

  “Don’t be so concerned,” I say to Aymee, who seems to’ve figured out where we’re headed.

  “Don’t be so concerned?” she says. “What should I be? Thrilled? Happy? Full of tingly anticipation?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Whatever you’d like.”

  “I’d like to go somewhere else,” she says.

  “Well, you saw the choices, and you were the one who picked our destination.”

  “But I didn’t know it was Choryn!”

  “It’s a wise woman who recognizes her own home world.”

  “From a dot on a map?”

  “I guess that could be a problem.”

  “You’re enjoying this!” she says.

  “I am,” I say, because I am.

  For the first time in seventeen months and nearly four days, I’m feeling like things are good. The ship that I part-own might be gone, its cargo lost forever, and someone—even if it is the weaselly louse Arbin Cole—is dead, but Aymee Desryx and I are alive, and I’m in love. The rest can be dealt with.

  “Wipe that grin off your face!” she says, and I have a flash of what it’ll be like years from now. Me grinning at something that pisses Aymee off and her yelling at me. That should be very entertaining. I smile harder.

  “I meant for you to—never mind,” she says. “Will you visit me in prison?”

  “If I have the time,” I say. “I do have to find a new ship, work things out with Zav, and have a medic check out the back of my head.” I massage the back of my head for show, but it is sore.

  “Have them check out the inside of your head while you’re at it,” she says. “If you have the time.”

  “What are these high crimes you’re wanted for, anyway?” I say. “I know about the problem with Lasson Birtak, but the bulletin said high crimes, not high crime.”

  “Want to rub it in some more?” she says, readjusting her position. Her leg is draped over mine, so I hug it, and her, closer.

  I remind myself that there really is no room in here to have any kind of sex that wouldn’t permanently injure one or both of us. If only I’d become a contortionist is the idle thought that now emerges.

  Also, I have to keep track of the controls. Unlike the Centreale, which, as antique as it is, as it was . . . but, still, it could fly itself. This little thing can’t. It needs some attention. Which I give it.

  While Aymee gets more comfortable—or less uncomfortable—I reach into my pocket and am reassured that what I thought was there still is there.

  It’s been there for seventeen months and nearly four days—maybe exactly four days at this point—but with all the throwing-about, it might’ve slipped out. Yet it’s still there. The bracelet.

  “I’m innocent,” Aymee says. “I not guilty of any high crimes.”

  “Not counting refusing your match,” I say.

  She ignores me.

  “Not counting stowing away on the Centreale.”

  “That’s not a crime,” she says.

  “Like hell it isn’t,” I say. “It most certainly is a crime.”

  “Not on Choryn.”

  “But there are other crimes, aren’t there?”

  “No!” she says. “There are no crimes.”

  My mind scans over the boring scenes in The Treachery of Joston Parst. The scenes where ordinary daily life on Choryn is explored in far too much detail. The scenes where I usually take a break, get something to drink, or chat with Chlo, who also enjoys this vid. She and I see it every time it’s on in the ship’s theater. Much more fun to enjoy it with an audience of like-minded viewers.

  “Ah,” I say. “Now I remember. You’re not allowed to leave the planet without the permission of some hooha. The—” I struggle to remember the ludicrous name of this official.

  “Nik,” she says, “you realize that everything that’s in Joston Parst is made up, don’t you?”

  “The examining agent. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  She looks away. I must’ve gotten it right. I vaguely remember that scene. Not half so entertaining as the one where Joston’s pal’s wrist rots off.

  “That would make at least two crimes,” I say. “It’s all getting clear to me now.”

  She’s not talking. I’ve hit the Chorynean nail on the head.

  “Okay,” she says, turning back toward me. She wasn’t really all that turned away. This capsule is tiny.

  “You want to know what my crimes are? I might as well tell you, since you’ll find out soon enough. They’ll read the list while they’re arresting me.”

  “I thought you were innocent,” I say, and she punches me in the arm again. I love it when she does that.

  “I am innocent,” she says, “to a reasonable being. But Chorynean officials are hardly reasonable. They have their stupid agendas and they can’t be moved. It’s been that way for millennia.”

  “Too bad,” I say. “I would have liked to have gotten to know you better.” I suppress a grin and try hard not to react.

  “I think there are at least four crimes,” she says, sighing again, only this time is different. This time she’s not sighing in sexual need. Instead she’s sighing in need of another planet to go to. Except we have no choice. It’s Choryn or die.

  I finger the bracelet, which has been wearing a hole in my pocket for a long time. When I bought it, I didn’t think I’d be using it in the way I’m about to use it.

  Aymee

  “First,” I say, “as you know, I refused my match. That’s probably the most severe crime. Then, as you learned from the crap vid Joston Parst, I left Choryn without the permission of the examining agent.”

  “I did remember that right!” the First World Terran says, like he’s about to get a prize for recalling some stupid fact that was said in the worst vid ever made.

  “You did,” I say, conceding the point. I’ve never made it to that part of Joston, so I didn’t know it was included. “Also,” I say, “I left my post.”

  “Interesting,” he says, doing something with the little pod’s controls, something I wouldn’t’ve thought to do since I’ve never seen one of these things.

  But if it’d been up to me—well, it was up to me, only I didn’t know it—I would’ve picked somewhere else to go to, the other place, not Choryn. Even if it was touch-and-go if we’d make it there. But I would’ve taken that chance. Since that chance wouldn’t’ve included my possible beheading. I refuse to escalate
possible to probable, even if it is.

  “What was your post?” he says.

  “I’m chief engineer at the Soron station,” I say. “I was.”

  “I imagine they’ll be missing you.”

  “They no doubt noticed my absence,” I say, sighing again. I have to stop sighing.

  “Too bad the Centreale is no more,” Niklas says. “You could’ve applied for a job there. I hear there’s an opening. The last engineer is no longer viable.”

  “And also,” I say, because I might as well tell him all my crimes, not just the huge ones, “I may have tampered with some of my personal data.”

  “May have?” The smug Big World Terran looks like he’d like to laugh, only he’s restraining himself. I’m not sure why.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” I say. “But if I hadn’t done it, they would’ve found me before the Centreale left port.”

  “Think of all the sex you would’ve missed out on.” He is laughing now, but quietly, almost to himself.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I have considered that.”

  “Any more crimes you haven’t confessed to?” he says as he feels the back of his head again.

  “I’m not responsible for your injuries,” I say.

  “I didn’t say you were,” he says, smiling a really huge smile now.

  Then he runs his hand back through his golden blond hair, much of it lying loose on his neck, and I remember the sex I didn’t miss out on. And wonder how much even more amazing it would be if only we had some few years of practice to learn as much about each other as possible.

  “Well, Aymee Desryx,” he says in his First Officer Niklas Arca command voice, “even though stowing away aboard the Centreale may not be a crime on Choryn—and, really, I can’t see why it wouldn’t be since they have so many damned laws there that this seems like it’d be one of them—but, getting back to the point . . .”

  Niklas

  I pull the bracelet out of my pocket.

  “Even though it’s not a crime on Choryn, it is a crime on the Centreale. And, before you protest and say that there is no more Centreale, stowing away is an intergalactic crime. And you’re now in a ship, even though a very small one, with the captain. As such, I have certain powers.”