Starflight (3 page)

Instinct told her to retreat—something wasn’t right—but she crossed both arms over her chest and asked in her sweetest voice, “How can I assist you, Mr. Spaulding?”

He turned and favored her with a glance as cold and empty as their surroundings. Wordlessly, he swept a hand toward the service door at the hull of the ship.

At first Solara didn’t understand. She gazed through the porthole at the outpost station to watch attendants pump fuel into the ship’s massive holding tanks. But then her gaze drifted downward, and she spotted her trunk on the floor. There was no mistaking the government-standard stenciling on the lid:
BROOKS, SOLARA. CHARITABLE INSTITUTE #22573
.

She was still staring at her luggage when she asked, “What’s this?”

“This,” he told her, “is where you get off.”

She whipped her gaze to his. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have you ever known me to enjoy a joke?”

“But this is an outpost. There’s nothing here. That’s why everyone’s staying on board.”

His casual shrug said that wasn’t his problem. “There are other ships. If you’re lucky, maybe someone less discriminating than me will hire you.”

Solara’s mouth went dry. Would he really leave her stranded at an outpost without a single credit to her name? Surely he knew what awaited her out there. She had never traveled beyond Earth before, but she’d heard stories of what girls like her had to do in these situations. She would be at the mercy of every lonely ship hand and oily smuggler who passed through this hub.

Maybe Doran was only trying to scare her.

“This isn’t funny,” she said in a small voice.

“Who’s laughing?” he asked. “By the way, you can keep the boots and clothes I bought for you. They’re of no use to me.”

She searched his face for a glimpse of kindness, the barest spark of compassion, finding none. As awful as Doran’s constant insults were, she’d never believed him capable of this kind of cruelty. She still didn’t want to believe it. “You’re really going to do this?” she asked. “Leave me here with nowhere to go?”

By way of answer, he brushed past her toward the stairs.

“Damn it, Doran!” she yelled, enjoying a morsel of satisfaction when the echo made him flinch. “We have a contract!”

He spun on her from his place at the top step. “And I warned you what would happen if you disappointed me.”

Disappointed
him?

The accusation was so ridiculous that it stole Solara’s voice. She’d done everything he had asked of her, completed each demeaning task without once complaining. How dare he accuse her of failing to honor her side of the bargain?

Her vision tunneled, and she thrust a finger at him. “I came to your suite in the middle of the night to bring you a glass of water when you were too lazy to walk to the bathroom. I cleaned your girlfriend’s vomit off the sofa cushions.” Solara’s voice raised a pitch. “For God’s sake, I even fetched her panties when you two left them in the elevator! I wanted to amputate my own hand after that!”

Doran’s cheeks flushed bright pink, but he kept his tone cool. “I don’t tolerate liars.”

“Liars,” she repeated, finally understanding the real issue. She’d refused to share the details of her conviction with him. Well, that wasn’t going to change. She ripped off one glove and held her knuckles in his face. “So this is what it’s about? You want to know what I did to earn my ink?”

His blue eyes narrowed. “I can’t promise I’ll reconsider my decision.”

“That’s okay. I want you to know.” She gripped the stair rails and leaned down until she was close enough to smell his musky cologne. “I killed my last boss—buried a wrench in his brain when he tried to fire me.”

Doran took one step backward down the stairs, then another.

“But the judge had mercy,” she said, holding his gaze as she followed him down the steps. “Because my boss was just like you…a total waste of flesh.”

“I don’t believe you.” But Doran’s trembling voice contradicted his words.

“That I killed someone?” she asked. “Or that you’re a waste of flesh? Because one of those statements is true.”

He glared at her. “While you’re hustling a ride to the outer realm, I’ll be sipping champagne in bed with my girlfriend. Who’s the real failure here?”

“You are,” Solara said. “No doubt about it.” An odd sense of calm settled over her, steadying her pulse and slowing her breath. It felt good to speak her mind, even if each word was a nail in her coffin. “I might have dirt under my fingernails and tattoos across my knuckles,” she told him, “but I can fix that with a hot bath and a visit to the flesh forger. You’re dirty in a place that can’t be washed. You’ll never change, and you’ll never make a difference. When you die, no one will miss you, because your life won’t matter.” She followed him down the stairs until they stood nose-to-nose at the base.
“You don’t matter.”

If she didn’t know better, she’d think her words had stung him. “Don’t pretend you’re better than me,” he whispered. “By the time you afford your first bolt bucket, I’ll control all the fuel in the galaxy. The Solar League would collapse without Spaulding, and they know it. If you hadn’t been expelled, you would’ve seen the League president at graduation—to congratulate me.”

She shook her head. “You still don’t get it.”

“You’re the one who’s deluded.”

“You know what? I’m glad you dropped me here.” She jabbed a finger toward his forehead to punctuate her final words. “You’re not worth my time.”

Lurching back to avoid her touch, Doran pointed at the top of the stairs. “Don’t let me stop you. Your passage here is unpaid. I’d hate to see you arrested as a stowaway.”

But despite her bold words, Solara didn’t budge.

Couldn’t
budge.

Beads of sweat formed along her upper lip, because once she left the safety of this transport, there was no turning back. She would never survive out there. And if she stayed on board the
Zenith
and the crew caught her, they would show no leniency. Not with her conviction so fresh. They’d send her to one of the prison colonies, where she would spend the rest of her life mining the fuel ore that made Doran so rich.

No.

She couldn’t lose her freedom over him. There had to be another way.

“Better hurry,” he said with a smug smile. “I’ve traveled on plenty of vessels like this, and they don’t take all day to refuel.”

While he gloated, Solara scanned the engine room for anything she could smuggle out and barter for passage on another ship. She spotted an upgraded gravity drive, but without the tools to remove it, the device was useless to her.

Think harder,
she told herself.
There’s always unexpected currency to find.

Then her gaze landed on Doran’s indenture band, the one that joined them as master and servant, and the solution hit like a lightning bolt to the head. That bracelet was the most valuable hunk of metal on board, because he’d linked it to his credit account. And Doran’s credit was limitless. Just last week, he’d gambled away a lifetime’s fortune in the casino as if it were spare tokens he’d found in a jar. If she overpowered him and took his bracelet, she could use his money to hire a private ship.

Solara chewed the inside of her cheek and sized him up—six feet, two inches of lean, sculpted muscle. His bulk came from a gym, not a worksite, but that wouldn’t make him any less strong. Overpowering him was out of the question.

“What’s the matter?” he taunted, leaning against the stair rail with one booted foot crossed over the other. “Afraid you’ll miss me?”

She sneered at him. “The only thing I’ll miss is the chance to flush you out the waste port.”

He laughed. “You’re not very nice for a girl raised by nuns.”

Solara was about to retort,
Maybe they weren’t nice nuns,
when she remembered Sister Agnes’s parting gift—the tiny weapon tucked inside her pocket.

She drew a hopeful breath.

The stunner dispensed a fast-absorbing liquid drug with enough neuro-inhibitors to drop a mule. One touch to Doran’s skin and he’d be out cold in seconds. Better yet, when he came to, he’d have a nasty hangover and wouldn’t remember his own name. That meant he couldn’t tell anyone she’d stolen his band, at least not for a day or two, which was more than enough time to put a few solar systems between them.

Solara reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around the stunner while trying to ignore the sudden guilt tugging at her stomach. This didn’t make her a bad person. Doran had left her with no other options—it was life or death. Besides, the toxins wouldn’t hurt him.

At least not permanently.

She reminded herself of that as she positioned the button inside her palm and flicked the tiny activation switch. “I’d better go,” she said.

Doran nodded. “And soon.”

“Thank you for taking me this far. And for the new clothes.”

“Don’t forget the boots.”

“And the boots,” she agreed while extending her hand to him. “No hard feelings?”

The peace offering must have surprised him, because his eyebrows twitched. But even after he recovered, he made no move to touch her. He only stood there and tugged at his earlobe while refusing to look her in the eyes. It seemed the Great Doran Spaulding was too good to shake hands with her.

Solara solved that problem by grabbing his wrist.

There was just enough time for confusion to register on his face before his body collapsed to the floor, landing with a clang. Solara dropped to her knees and immediately started working the bracelet over his hand. As soon as she slipped it free, she shoved the band around her wrist and made for the stairs. She was halfway to the exit before she realized a snag in her plan.

The bracelet couldn’t be used without identity verification, which meant she would need his handprint for the scanners at the retail center.

“Oh no,” she whispered, and whirled around to face his sprawling body. If she wanted Doran’s credits, she would have to take him with her into the outpost.

Just how was she supposed to do that?

H
e awoke to searing pain.

His body throbbed in places he hadn’t known existed. Even his teeth had a vicious heartbeat. But it was his skull that screamed the loudest. It felt like someone had peeled back his scalp and coated his brain with molten ore.

What the hell had he done to himself?

He opened his eyes a crack and immediately wished he hadn’t. The light was too bright, burning a path to the center of his aching head. Moaning, he clutched his temples while rolling onto his side. A sudden image flashed in his mind of being trapped inside a closet, but when he felt the surface beneath him, it was hard and frigid—metal, not carpet. A quick peek confirmed it. He exhaled in relief. He must’ve passed out and hit his head. That would explain the unholy pulsing between his ears.

“Hey,” whispered someone close behind him. “Are you all right?”

Was he all right? What kind of asinine question was that?

“Fan-damned-tastic,” he barked, wincing at his own shouts. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What happened to me?”

Instead of receiving an answer, he felt delicate fingers probe his scalp. “It’s a good thing your head’s so hard,” the person said, and he realized for the first time that the speaker was a young woman. “Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s try,” she said. “I’ll give you a push.”

She cupped his shoulders and guided him into a sitting position, then helped him lean back against what felt like a metal rail. His head pounded at the change in altitude, but the rest of him didn’t object.

“Better?” she asked.

“Not really. I feel like my brain’s about to explode.”

“It’s no wonder,” she chided as if he’d done something wrong. “After all the Crystalline you drank last night, your liver’s probably begging for mercy, too.”

“Crystalline?” Was he drunk? He didn’t think so, but the waves of nausea roiling inside his stomach forced him to reconsider. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

She didn’t say anything for the longest time. When she finally answered, it was with a question of her own. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

The odd response made him wonder who he was talking to.

He squinted open his eyes to look at the woman, surprised to discover she was a girl about his age. She had a heart-shaped face with full lips pulled into a frown, and a nose that turned up slightly at the tip. He couldn’t tell whether her eyes were green or brown, but they were fringed with dark lashes that matched the color of the intricate braids encircling her head. She wore black pants and a fitted gray top, simple clothes but of seemingly high quality, and peeking out from above her shirt collar was a tiny pink birthmark in the shape of an S.

He knew that birthmark.

“Did you hear me?” she asked. “What do you remember?”

He tried thinking back but couldn’t focus over the pain. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s start with something easy,” she said. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“One.”

“What’s two plus two?”

He shot her a glare. “I’m injured, not deficient.”