by F. T. Lukens
“I’m sorry,” Pen said softly, “But please explain. I don’t understand.”
Asher dropped his bent fork. With his elbows on the table, he tented his fingers and leaned forward. “What if it’s more than one crazy despotic Baron on a backward planet? What if it’s two planets, or three, conspiring against the drifts? What if it’s Erden and Crei and Stahl and more? What if Baron Vos was only the first?”
“That’s a lot of ifs, Ash,” Rowan said. “And it’s not what we need to concentrate on right now. Because of this decision by the Corps, we’re not going to be able to finish our cargo run.”
“What are we going to do?” Pen asked.
“I’ve already asked Ollie to arrange the cargo as needed for an in-transit pick-up. And I’ve asked Lucas to find a friendly along our route.” She leveled her gaze at Lucas.
He fidgeted, pushed his goggles onto the crown of his head from where they had slipped down to his brow. The strap caught in his red hair and left a strand standing on end.
“Yeah, about that.”
“Yes?”
“We really only have one choice.” He squirmed. “It’s Hatfield.”
The protests were loud, and Ren shrank back, startled at the vehemence not only from Ollie and Asher, but from Penelope as well.
“Do you not remember what happened last time?” Ollie spat. “They tried to pull us into an ancient feud they had with another trading family. We were shot at.”
“By both families,” Penelope added.
“In a crossfire.”
“I was dressing pulse gun grazes for weeks.”
Lucas threw up his hands. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I can’t make a cargo ship appear from nowhere. And they are nearby, within a day if they stuck to their submitted schedule and route.”
Ren zoned out as they argued. Maybe Lucas couldn’t make a cargo ship appear, but Ren could transport the Star Stream across the cluster. He’d done it before. It would take concentration and tapping into the well of his power, but he could do it. It would help Rowan, too, and she had given up so much for him. He could repay her.
“I could do it,” he said, interrupting.
The group turned to look at him. Asher’s gaze swept over Ren.
“Do what?”
“Transport us. To the drift. I’ve done it before.”
Asher’s response was quick. “No.”
“Absolutely not,” Rowan agreed.
Ren jutted out his chin. “I could do it. I’m powerful enough.”
Asher planted his palms on the table next to his plate, and his chest heaved. “You’ve done it once under extreme duress. And even then you didn’t know when you did it, how you did it, and where you transported us. It wiped you out for days. And do you honestly think you’re in control enough to do it? If you think for one moment I will allow you to endanger the crew or yourself then you have absolutely gone as crazy as the Corps believes.”
In a long moment of silence Ren’s insides twisted in confusion and frustration.
“I think what Asher is trying to say,” Penelope said, “is let’s try meeting with the Hatfields first, and if that fails, we’ll try… star-powered transporting.”
Ren nodded. “Fine.”
“Good, then it’s settled,” Rowan said, with the finality of a captain. “We’ll meet with the Hatfields tomorrow, transfer the cargo, and head to Erden.” She took a bite of her food. “It’ll be easy. I’m certain of it.”
No one else was convinced.
4
In fact, it wasn’t easy.
Maybe Lucas was the best pilot in the cluster, if everyone on the Star Stream was to be believed, but maneuvering to seal with another ship was difficult even for him. And Ren was forbidden to assist, as was Millicent. Asher was wary their powers may give them away and cause more stress in an already stressful situation.
So Ren waited impotently on the walk above the cargo bay while Ollie and Asher readied the crates. The twin thunks of towing cables hitting the hull triggered the memory of the Star Stream under attack by Abiathar. Ren clutched the railing and willed his fear to stay in check while he endured every scrape of metal against metal and every jolt and shudder as the ships bumped into position. It was difficult. He’d been connected to the ship since the moment they’d departed Mykonos and he could feel the distress of metal in his throat and the groan of the systems in his bones.
Ren’s power itched inside of him, right in the middle of his chest, and he clenched down on it and drew it in instead of allowing it to flow out.
“You look like you’re in pain.” Millicent’s voice startled him, and he gritted his teeth as she drifted toward him. “Your face is scrunched.”
“I’m doing what Asher asked.” Ren’s grip tightened on the railing. Sweat beaded along his hairline.
“You’ve been in the systems too long. Pulling back will be almost impossible.”
“I can do it.”
“I don’t understand why you need to.” She placed her hand on Ren’s forearm, where the muscles strained beneath the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. “You’re only hurting yourself when you could be helping.”
“According to Asher, this is helping.”
Millicent blinked. “He doesn’t understand that holding back is more dangerous than letting go. He isn’t one of us.”
That was… true. Asher didn’t understand the nuances of power or its terrible sweetness.
“He’s trying to protect you again, but he can’t protect you from what you are,” Millicent continued.
Ren closed his eyes and relaxed just a bit; his shoulders dropped from near his ears. Spurred by Millicent’s power, his star traveled down the length of his body, searching for a destination. Ren was only the conduit. The Star Stream’s systems were home and welcomed him with open circuits as his power poured into them. He found solace in the video feeds and, even with his eyes closed, he could see the whole cargo bay and observe as Asher and Ollie talked. He could see his own tall, willowy body and shaggy brown hair, and noted that his face was relaxed as if he were asleep. Compared to Millicent’s small frame and pale skin, Ren looked alien.
“There you go,” Millicent said. “See? That feels better, doesn’t it?”
Ren nodded. Yes, this was good. Millicent was right. She was always in control, and Ren should learn from her, learn to wield his gift to help others instead of being in constant fear of it.
The ship vibrated under Ren’s feet, and instantly he was at the aft airlock and in the comm system. He listened as the Hatfield crew talked with Lucas and, after a wrenching sound, confirmed they were in position. Ren eased along the docking apparatus and coaxed it out of the Star Stream’s outer pocket until it met with the extension from the Family Honor. He monitored the seal and the pressurization of the resulting tunnel, ensuring everything was safe.
Though there was no video in the access tunnel, there was audio, and, through the connection, Ren snuck into the systems of the Family Honor. He scrolled through the crew manifest—fifteen hands, all family if the names were any indication, led by Captain Anse. He browsed their video feeds and found their cargo area, noting the four crew members who stood near their airlock, waiting for the go-ahead to venture across. Three were men, dressed in clothes Ren thought were more duster than spacer, all with shocking red hair. A woman was the point, and her posture reminded Ren of Rowan as she stood with her arms crossed and her back straight. She wore a tool belt and had goggles on her straight red hair and a pulse gun strapped to her leg. In fact, they all had weapons. They each carried at least one gun, and two of the men had electric staffs that reminded Ren of the prods back on Erden.
Tuning into their comms, whose static rendered them almost useless, he heard most of their conversation.
“Are you sure about this, Rosie?”
“Yes. Rowan Morgan is
no pirate. She’s not going to do us wrong.”
“What if they’re cross about last time?”
“Then they wouldn’t have contacted us.”
“Wonder what was so coggin’ important that they have to relinquish their cargo in the middle of a run?”
Rosie shook her head and shifted. “Didn’t say much. An emergency with one of their crew.”
Ren crackled.
“Be on your guard, though,” she continued. “I may trust Rowan, but who knows what is going to be on the other side of this walk.”
“And if it goes south?”
“Protect yourself. Kill who you have to. Take the cargo.”
“Maybe we should do that anyway.” Ren zeroed in on the speaker—a tall man with freckles across his nose, a tattoo on his neck, and half an ear. “Forget the niceties.”
Rosie smirked. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”
The group laughed.
Ren snapped back into his body. He staggered backward, released the railing, and almost fell on his backside. While he’d drifted, Millicent had wandered away, and Rowan had joined Asher and Ollie on the bay floor. She had her weapon, but the other two were unarmed.
They were unarmed.
Ren jolted upright, gathered his shaky legs under himself, and stumbled down the metal steps.
“Don’t let them come aboard,” Ren shouted as he tripped his way to the trio. “They’re armed. They want the cargo. Why don’t you have weapons?”
“Ren? Are you okay?” Ollie asked, grabbing Ren’s arm as he barreled into their group. “What are you talking about?”
“The Hatfields are armed to the teeth. They were talking about killing you and taking the cargo.”
Rowan’s eyebrows shot up, but Asher’s expression turned dark.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
Ren shook off Ollie’s grip. “I heard them.”
“By using your power after I specifically said to stay out of the way and out of trouble. I told you that you were not to do anything to add stress to this situation.”
Ren clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He was not going to be scolded like a naughty child for trying to protect his friends. “Are you seriously lecturing me when I’m trying to warn you? The Hatfields are dangerous.”
“We know, Ren,” Rowan said, voice quiet but harsh. “We aren’t going into this blind.”
“But, they said—”
Asher sighed, cutting him off. “Look, there is trade etiquette going on here your little duster self doesn’t understand, which is why I didn’t want you here. Not to mention your erratic behavior the last few weeks. We don’t need you spouting accusations at people we’re trying to do business with.”
“Hey, guys,” Lucas’s voice came over the shipwide comm. “They’re approaching. Be ready to open the airlock.”
Rowan nodded toward Ollie, who left the group after a worried glance cast Ren’s way.
“Go sit down on the stairs, Ren,” Rowan said, and it was an order, not a suggestion.
Ren took a step back. “But—”
“Go. Or are you disobeying a direct order from your captain?”
Ren slunk away, head down, shoulders hunched. His stomach churned. He knew what he’d heard, but what if he had misunderstood? Rowan was confident. Ollie was intimidating by merely standing there; his bulky form was heads taller than most men. And Asher had military experience. He wouldn’t allow Rowan to walk into a dangerous situation.
Ren sighed as he settled on the stairs. Ren spotted Jakob and Penelope on the overhead walkway, overlooking the proceedings. Jakob had a pulse gun in the crook of his arm, and Penelope had a small gun peeking from her tool belt. Ren winced when he realized the rest of the crew had had a plan all along.
One they hadn’t shared with him.
Ollie opened the airlock, and the seal hissed as the group from the Hatfield ship walked into the bay. They paused on the other side of the threshold. Rosie was in front as the three men fanned out behind her.
Ren focused on the man who had joked about foregoing niceties and taking their cargo. The man observed Ollie, sizing him up, as Ollie resealed the door. His eyes twitched, and his mouth set in a frown. And he held his body in a way which suggested a familiarity with these types of situations. He was dangerous. Ren saw it in the missing piece of his ear, the tattoo of a wildcat on his neck, the nicked body armor, and the ease of his steps. Ren’s chest burned.
“Rosie Hatfield,” Rowan said, with a forced smile. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, Rowan Morgan.” Her smiled wasn’t overly friendly; the corners of her mouth barely lifted. “Long time, no see.”
“I trust your father was able to confirm the information with the recipient.” Rowan wasn’t one for small talk, but was always to the point, especially when it pertained to business.
Rosie took stock of the hold. Her gaze stopped on Ren before raking across Jakob and Penelope.
“Yes. We’ll give you ten percent of the take.”
Rowan arched an eyebrow. “Ten percent? That’s ridiculous. My crew brokered the deal. My ship has taken it over halfway. Ten percent is robbery.” The atmosphere grew tense. Asher shifted. Ollie moved to stand behind Rowan.
Rosie controlled her expression to look bored, but her gaze flicked to the suspended walk and back. “And?”
“Sixty percent,” Rowan countered, hands on her hips.
“Now who is being ridiculous? Twenty.”
“Forty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Thirty.”
Rosie rolled her eyes, then checked over her shoulder and held a silent conversation with the guy with the tattoo.
Were negotiations niceties? Ren sat up straighter and watched the exchange, on alert.
Rosie turned back. “Fine.”
She held out her hand, and Rowan took it. The handshake sealed the deal.
“Pleasure doing business.”
“Likewise.” Rose jerked her head toward the crates laid out in front of Asher. “My brothers will be taking those.” The three large men moved, but Rowan held up her hand.
“The thirty percent first, please.”
Rosie frowned. Her fingers danced along the holster at her side. “Thirty upon delivery.”
“No, thirty now. I wasn’t born yesterday, Rosie. Credits now, then cargo.”
Rosie twisted her lips, but she reached into her pocket and pulled out a chip. She held it between two of her fingers. “This chip has twenty-five percent on it. Take this now or thirty upon delivery.”
Rowan tapped her foot. She brushed her blond braid over her shoulder. “Are you crunching me?”
Shrugging, Rosie spun the credit chip between her fingers. “This is what I got, Rowan. Take it or leave it.”
Rowan placed her hands on her hips. “Save me from cutthroats,” she muttered. “Fine, we’ll take it. But I’ll remember this.”
Rosie’s smile grew, but it wasn’t friendly. “I’m sure you will.”
She tossed Rowan the chip, and Rowan handed it to Asher, who checked it in the reader. He nodded.
Rosie gestured, and her family stepped forward to gather the crates. The brother approached Ollie. He laughed at an untold joke and pushed Ollie’s shoulder, roughly. It was too friendly and too aggressive, with his mouth twisted into a smile or a snarl, Ren couldn’t tell. He touched Ollie again, on the arm, and his grease-stained fingers wrapped over Ollie’s bicep, his nails making indents in Ollie’s brown flesh.
Ren’s heart sped up.
Then the Hatfield brother’s other hand fluttered near his side, and his fingers brushed over the grip of his pulse gun. Ren trembled with fear.
He shot to his feet. Static filled his head. His vision flickered blue. Ren’s limbs jerked as he crossed the space. His musc
les were taut, his eyes were ablaze, and he raised his hand, fingers splayed.
The star poured from his fingertips and burst from his body in a pulse of blue light. For one chilling second, everything went still. Time slowed to a crawl as the wave of power engulfed the room.
Their weapons were easy. He broke them with a thought, all of them—snapped the mechanisms in the pulse guns’ triggers and burned the wires in the prods. He even shorted their comms, keeping them from contacting support. No. They weren’t going to hurt this crew—his friends, his family.
Ren stalked forward with electricity sparking between his fingers. One of the intruders pulled his inert weapon and, with twisted pleasure, Ren disassembled it. The mechanisms fell like snow to the deck plate, where they pinged. The invading group scrambled back, yelling, screaming, and Ren smiled.
Let them be scared. Let them run. Let them be terrified. They were bullies—cutthroats as Rowan said. They were dangerous. They didn’t belong on the ship.
Ren opened the airlock. The metal door banged open, and the Hatfields lunged for it. With his senses tangled in the systems, Ren could hear the conversation through the comms.
“What is he?” Rosie yelled. “What the stars is happening, Rowan?”
“Ren!” In the vid feeds, Ren saw Asher step into his path. The pressure of Asher’s hands on Ren’s shoulders was negligible. His voice stirred nothing.
“Stop him, Ash.”
“Ren, listen to my voice. Listen to me. They’re not trying to hurt us.”
Ren tilted his head. “Forget the niceties.”
“That was a joke!” The voice cracked with fear. “I swear. It was a joke.”
Ren was in the Star Stream. He was in the airlock and in the tunnel. He was in the Family Honor. He was spread between the two ships, in every system, in every nook, and he could do anything.
“We’re leaving. Keep the cargo and the chip.”
“No!” Asher held out a hand. “Stay put. Don’t go in the tunnel.”
“Snap him out of it, Ash!”
“Ren! Move out of the way, Pen. I can help!”
Rowan pointed a finger toward the walkway. “Stay where you are, Jakob.”