by Audrey Grey
The only way to do that was to venture out into the ship. By the dim red lights she’d seen along the baseboards, Talia had determined it was night. The crew would be asleep. Wrapping her arms around her body, she peered out of her hiding spot. She was shivering, starving, and terrified. Not in that order. Above everything, even fear, she was famished.
She’d demand food first. Then she’d address the planets of the Seven.
Pinching the slinky fabric of her dress between her fingers at the knee, she unfolded from the range and steadied her feet. Darkness nibbled at her vision, but she blinked the remnants of cryosleep away. The linoleum floor was freezing against her bare feet as she crossed the galley, each unsure step growing stronger than the last.
The door swung open just as she reached it. A man in his very early twenties stood in her way. He had tousled copper-colored hair that needed a good brushing, blue-gray eyes that crinkled in the corners, smirking lips . . . and a face she’d describe as handsome, if not for the port flap just below his neck.
Her focus slipped to his navy-blue captain’s uniform. A mock captain? There were rules against that. Regulations set by the intergalactic coalition. Behind him milled what had to be his crew. A tall, wickedly gorgeous man grinned at her, his long flaxen hair pulled back in complicated braids. His navy uniform was stretched thin—practically painted—over swollen muscles and a flat waist. Two younger crew hands watched her with wary green eyes set against sandy-brown skin and exotic features. Siblings, guessing by their similarities. The tall woman in the very back had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. She held something—a tray full of cookies.
Talia’s stomach strained as the sweet, nostalgic smell hit her. The Palesian markets just outside the palace came to mind. The scent of the fried pastries topped with pistachios and honey drifting on the hot breeze.
But she couldn’t ignore the one fact staring her in the face: The entire crew was comprised of mocks. Perhaps these were the night crew, and the human crew took over in the morning. Having a night crew in case of trouble wouldn’t be unheard of in the more dangerous sections of space. But all mocks?
“Where are your owners?” she asked, her throat raspy and tender from underuse. The mocks blinked at her, not understanding, so she reiterated, “Your humans. I demand to see them.”
“Our humans?” The biting sarcasm in the young mock captain’s voice set her veins on fire, and she nearly slapped the smugness from his face as he raised an eyebrow at the others. “She demands?”
None of them knew who she was. If they did, well . . .
“What ship is this?”
“The Odysseus.” The pride dripping from the captain’s voice made it sound like this rust bucket was something to boast about.
“I’m hungry.” The declaration came without her planning it, and she cringed at the petty lilt of her voice. The desperation. But she was starving, and she wouldn’t make it much further without sustenance. “Who can I talk to about a proper meal?”
The tall woman weaved through the rest of the crew and stepped forward, offering the cookies. She had a warm smile that set Talia at ease. “Freshly baked.”
Talia plucked the cookies from the tray, a quick motion unbecoming of a princess, and took a bite. As soon as the buttery crumbs begin to melt against her tongue, she found herself shoving the two cookies into her mouth and didn’t care that crumbs rained around her.
The mock crew watched her every movement, as if she were an animal inside a cage. Eat slower, Princess. But before she knew it, she’d consumed the entire tray. They were still just quietly watching her, so she brushed off her face, straightened her dress, and did her best to pretend she hadn’t just dismantled an entire tray of sweets in front of strangers.
The muscled-up mock stepped forward and offered his wide hand, glistening with fine blond hairs. “I’m Leo.”
She stared at the beefy hand, the fingernails surprisingly neat and well-kept. What was she supposed to do with his introduction? She’d never shaken a hand in her entire life.
All at once, she understood. They had no clue who she was, or they’d all be scraping the floor with their bows. The mock, Leo, nodded to the tall woman. “This is Jane, our co-captain. These two”—he cut his gaze at the siblings—“are Lux and Dorian, our navigator and mechanic. And this cocky bastard right here is our captain, Will Perrault.”
She glared at the last mock, Will. She didn’t care what his title was, the insolent slant of his lips was enough to have him jailed.
“You’ll get used to his ugly mug soon enough,” Leo added, and Will shot him a pompous look. The captain’s face must be incapable of anything else.
They all stared at her, their eyes wide, some of them rocking forward on their toes a bit as if they expected something from her. Finally, Leo let his hand drop. “So you don’t shake hands. Do you have a name?”
Talia couldn’t overcome the oddness of them not knowing who she was. But their ignorance explained the galling way they were treating her. Once they knew . . .
A chill trickled down her side as she realized they couldn’t. She was inside a ship manned by a fully mock crew. No humans in sight. If this ship were one of the Seven, she’d have seen a human by now. They weren’t sleeping. They wouldn’t show up in the morning. There were no humans.
Somehow, she’d landed on a rebel ship.
Her breath caught inside her chest, and she swallowed down the panic clawing its way up her spine. This could be the same ship that attacked her cruisership a week ago. Her attention flicked to the corroding steel along the walls, the disrepair. Well, maybe not exactly the same. This wasn’t a fighting ship. So . . . perhaps she’d lucked out after all.
If she could manage to hide her identity, come up with a believable story, and wait until the next refueling station or planetary stop, she could send out a call for help. She’d make herself unappealing as a captive, just another lowly human.
“Name?” Leo reminded, gently.
Name, name, name? “Ailat. Ailat Star . . . born. Starborn.”
Will’s lips resumed their smirking formation. “You sure about that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t sound so sure. So, Ailat Starborn. Why were you inside that capsule?”
Why? Her brain scrambled for a believable lie. “I was . . . on a ship. There was an accident, and all the escape hatches were damaged. I found that pod by accident.”
“Huh.” Will’s gaze slid down her dress. “Dressed like that?”
Talia trembled with rage. Never mind that he was right. Her fancy dress had to be explained. “I’m . . . an escort. There was a party on the starliner I was on.”
He scoffed. “Sure. You’re an escort, and I’m a flesher.”
“It’s true,” she said, resisting the urge to cross her arms to protect herself from his sharp gaze. When she escaped this rebel ship, he’d be the first to pay. “I’m new.”
She felt as if the lie was written across her skin in bold red letters. An escort? Her grandmother would keel over dead if she knew her granddaughter was masquerading as a high-class prostitute, but Talia didn’t have much choice. She needed to keep her identity secret long enough to escape this crap-hole and contact their allies. And few people would make up being an escort, so that might help sell the story.
Except, by the way the captain grinned at her, he didn’t believe a lick of her story. Luckily, the others had a mixture of pity and distaste written across their faces. Which meant they believed her . . . Ish.
Talia fought the urge to groan at her idiotic circumstances. From this moment forward, Talia Starchaser, Future Sovereign, was a Palesian escort. A very hungry and very screwed one.
Chapter 11
Will
Will paced outside the mess hall where the flesher girl sat, ringed by Leo and Jane, surrounded by the last of their food supplies. Every once in a while, the flesher girl’s gaze would drift to Will, but then she’d think better of it and go bac
k to playing the sad-little-escort-girl card with his friends.
Fools. All it took was a pretty face and they believed everything she said. He frowned as she fixed a long plait of auburn hair so it hung over her shoulder and pooled on the table. Leo was leaned over watching her eat, a stupid, sappy smile brightening his face.
The pull was strong. She had bright amber eyes inside sun-kissed skin, unlike the sallow flesh of those used to living without ambient light. If she truly were an escort—highly doubtful—then she hadn’t been one for long. He’d seen the flesher escorts some of the more scurrilous crews kept on board and met a few high-class ones at the military functions he’d been invited to before his fall.
None had ever looked like this girl. They didn’t smile like her. Nor did they talk like her.
Maybe the escorts for the starliners were different. Still. Her attitude was off. Too insolent. Too bright.
Too . . . something.
He studied one of her hands. Delicate and smooth and capped with the manicured nails of someone who’d never done a day of labor in their life, and missing the number tattoo all fleshers carried. Without thinking, he rubbed his wrists. Just over the spot where his owner’s stamp was.
Number 5764. Crayburn’s official mark. Will could’ve had it erased, but he’d never taken the time. The mark was mostly hidden behind his Ender cuff anyway.
Who was her master? Did he die on the ship? More likely she murdered him and tried to escape.
She caught him looking, and he graced her with a smirk. I’m onto you.
Rolling her eyes, she went back to stabbing the last of the processed beef from the can. Did she think this was her personal kitchen? What flesher had such gall? He should march over there and stop this charade already. But the razor-edge of her collarbones peeking from her dress stopped him. The sharp peaks of her spine poking through the exposed skin of her back. How long was she inside that pod?
Lux posted up on the other side of the door, her gaze drifting to their captive. “You know, if you stare any longer, she’s going to think you fancy her.”
Will snorted. “She’s not my type.”
Lux ran a hand down the side of the door, still staring at the flesher. “Since when are gorgeous redheads with legs for days not your type?”
“One, her hair is technically auburn. Two, fleshers aren’t my thing. And, three, lying is a total turnoff. And if you haven’t noticed, she’s lying through her perfect flesher teeth.”
“I noticed.” Lux pivoted to face him. “I also noticed Leo’s wasting all our food on her.”
She was right. Those supplies would have lasted weeks. If not for the organic muscles and flesh used in mock construction, they wouldn’t need food at all. Although since Will still retained part of his flesher body, he needed more than the others.
“I don’t know . . .” Will toyed with the stiff collar of his jumpsuit. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were missing something. “Why did the soldiers come for her pod, then? They must have thought she was still inside.”
“No, they thought whoever she stole it from was. Her owner’s probably. Who knows. Maybe she killed him. Maybe she knows something she shouldn’t, or she’s a runaway flesher slave. Either way, not our problem.”
“Then why tell us she’s an escort?”
“Probably hopes you’ll keep her on for the perks. Intergalactic law states property found in wreckage belongs to whomever discovers it. So, technically, she now belongs to you.”
Will realized he’d been holding his breath while watching her. He tore his gaze away. Doubtful she’d ever been treated as property a day in her life. But there was more to her story. And it all traced back to that symbol.
“So?” Lux asked.
“So?”
“Will, no. I know that look. We need the money from her sale. You can’t keep her.”
A chuckle escaped his throat. “Keep her? Have you seen how much she eats? Upkeep for fleshers is expensive. They require ten times as much food as we do, plus medicines and doctors when they get ill, which is all the time. And they’re emotional and prone to violence.”
The last word settled uncomfortably in his gut. He knew firsthand just how brutal they could be. After all, he used to be one of them, until they tried to kill him.
She flicked up her dark eyebrows. “Uh-huh. So we can sell her at the first planetary stop then?”
The flesher girl’s laugh floated across the room. Leo belted out a hearty guffaw along with her. Already, she was changing things. Giving Jane a purpose. Beguiling his second mate with flesher charm. Finger-combing her hair into shiny curtains and leaning her head back when she laughed to show off that exquisite neck. She was trouble. He felt it deep inside his hollow carbon bones.
The faster they could rid themselves of her, the better. And with her looks, she would fetch a nice sum . . . enough maybe to repair the ship’s main radar. Since he’d been here, the transmitter hadn’t worked right, making it hard to compete with the better-funded scavengers in the area.
He released a long exhale. “If I can’t find anything about that symbol by the time we hit Oberon, she’s gone.”
“Oberon? Why that icy waste of rock?”
“Because there’s an old church there that houses the largest collection of history books on this side of the universe.”
Lux flicked up an impatient eyebrow. “That tells me nothing.”
“Lux, I searched the broadnet for that symbol, but nothing came up. Not a trace. Whatever that symbol stands for, someone erased it from the net. But they probably didn’t think to stop on Oberon and search the church’s files.” He stopped pacing and grabbed the door handle.
Lux asked, “Where you going?”
He grinned over his shoulder as he beelined for the girl. “To inform her she’s been assigned kitchen duty. Gotta pay for her food and board somehow.”
Stars, he couldn’t wait to watch her squirm at the prospect of dirtying those perfect nails.
Chapter 12
Talia
Talia leaned back in the creaky plastic chair and watched the mock man Leo dump another load of cans onto the dented metal table before he took a seat. All six-foot-four of him folded into his chair, his beefy upper body spilling over the table. She wrinkled her nose as he expertly worked some device to open a can. Normally she wouldn’t touch this stuff, but after being in cryosleep, her body decided she’d consume anything.
Besides, an escort wouldn’t be used to gourmet dining.
Leo slid a small can of foul-smelling fish toward her. Miniature silver bodies were packed tightly together in a gray sauce. Her lips puckered. Disgusting.
“Sardines,” he explained, flashing those big teeth. “Real.”
The proud way he said it told her eating the disgusting creatures was a great privilege. So she forced a smile and accepted the gift, slimy as it was. “Wonderful, Leo. I’m honored.”
As she forced herself to chew and swallow—and keep it all down—she studied the mock. Long tawny hair was pulled back from his square face in a mess of braids. On most men it would look silly, but paired with Leo’s ruggedly handsome face, kind walnut-colored eyes, and wide shoulders, it somehow worked. His skin—a newer kind of synthetic that mimicked flesh flawlessly—was brownish-gold. Circuit lines ran down the slips of exposed flesh, intricate tattoos unfurling down his neck into his uniform.
A mock tattoo? That was a new one. Perhaps it was a rebel thing.
Most mocks were created on an assembly line using one of several hundred templates. They were made to be familiar and pleasing, without surpassing the uniqueness of humans. Very few, like Ailat, were customized beyond the generic features. Those types of mocks were incredibly expensive and rare. Only a handful existed in the world.
Yet, Talia didn’t recognize any of the mocks she’d met on this ship as assembly-line droids. And her impeccable schooling meant she knew all the models, right down to the discontinued designs.
What were the odds
a ship would be crewed by not one, but five of the galaxies’ rarest mocks?
A more important question was: How had these rebels survived thus far? Their ship wouldn’t stand a chance against one of the Coalition’s Darkstars, and any one of the refueling stations would demand to see a flesher captain. None of it made any sense. Even the Outer Fringes of the Seven, where the rebellion raged, wasn’t safe for a ship like this.
Leo pushed a tin of crackers toward the mock Jane. With her graying hair, muddy eyes, and nondescript face, she was the only mock Talia recognized. Model B-7, if memory served her well. Jane had cut her hair and ditched the makeup, but she was one of three labor models who were state-issued to families who lost a husband or son during the rebellion battles. To make up for lost income, they could hire her out for various tasks.
B-7 models were supposed to be good at a little bit of everything.
The labor mock-turned-rebel cut her eyes at the crackers but didn’t accept, her gaze flicking toward the scowling captain watching from the doorway. Ugh. Talia glanced over and fought the urge to stick out her tongue.
Why did he insist on watching her? As if she were a criminal and a thief, not the other way around.
As soon as they met eyes, he sauntered over, his cutting stare going from the crackers to the empty cans around the table. “Better now?”
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s remarkable you can still fit inside that dress.”
She gathered her hair and tossed it over her right shoulder, all her muscles clenching to keep from shivering as the cool air hit her back. A deep ache ran down her spine. The cryosleep had really done a number on her body. “I have a high metabolism.”
“Must be all that work you do. You know, in-between the sheets.”
She nearly snapped at him, but of course he was trying to discredit her story. A true escort wouldn’t blush with that sort of pillow talk, so she scrunched her face into what she hoped was a seductive look and said, “As a matter of fact, it does. Although I doubt you’d know much about it.”