Moonlight Mist: A Limited Edition Collection of Fantasy & Paranormal)

by Nicole Morgan

  He straightened up and regarded her. “What are you doing here?”

  Kyra started, as if she hadn’t seen him, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. “The captain sent me down here to clean up. He said some of the containers broke open.”

  Ah, well that explained it then. In addition to avoiding him, he’d noticed that she was absent from the dining room every meal—Ivy usually brought the food in and laid it on the table. While the crew and passengers enjoyed the fruits of her labor, Kyra was always off slaving away somewhere else, attending to chores she’d put off to cook for them. It didn’t seem right. No matter what shit job Hunter assigned her, she did it without complaint. She was so shy and timid, he knew she’d never speak up and defend herself. So while he and Hunter and all the rest sat on their asses, she was off working.

  Finally, after a week of this, he’d tracked her down last night. The conversation hadn’t gone well. He’d found her lying in an access conduit, cleaning the inside of the hatch. He’d asked why she hadn’t been at dinner; she’d been evasive. Of course, first, she’d sat up too fast and banged her head. As she’d rubbed it ruefully, she’d asked if there was something wrong with the food. When he’d reassured her the meal had been fine, she’d dismissed him out of hand, turning her attention back to scrubbing the door seal.

  “I had some while I was making it,” she said, as if that was good enough.

  He’d tried to insist that she should eat with them, but she’d been staunch in her refusal, providing several lame excuses about being too busy and needing to attend to chores. She’d even made a joke about it being safer if she didn’t as she’d probably up end the table or knock someone unconscious, but that flash of self-deprecating humor had seemed like deflection. She didn’t seem to understand why he was upset. Or maybe it was that she didn’t like the idea of actually sitting down at a table and sharing a meal with him.

  Annoyed—and disappointed—he’d finally snapped, “Suit yourself, but a cook who don’t eat her own cooking doesn’t inspire confidence” and then left. He’d felt bad afterwards about losing his temper, but damn it, it had been a simple request; he wasn’t sure why it had turned into an argument.

  And, apparently, she wasn’t here now to see him, either; she was here because Hunter had directed her to be. Silently, he pointed to a stack of open containers, their contents strew about the hold. Spare parts, Re-Cons, and a crate of grain had all been tossed together and flung every which way.

  He turned back to the job of re-ordering the crates that hadn’t broken open. In a few minutes, he’d finished moving all the unbroken crates back into place. He dusted off his hands and looked around. Kyra had started piles for the various items, sorting them as she collected them from all around the cargo hold. Derrick grabbed the two wrenches and the fish-flavored Re-Con from the floor near his feet and dropped them in Kyra’s piles on his way toward the door. He paused, though, as he watched her moving diligently around the room. It was a big job for one person.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. But he couldn’t in good conscience just leave her here, even if she’d made it clear she didn’t much like his company.

  “Where is everyone else? Why did Hunter send you down here alone?”

  Kyra turned sharply, as if surprised by the sound of his voice. She flushed slightly. “They’re cleaning up the flight deck.” Then, she quickly added, “It wasn’t me; it was one of the techs.” She shot him a rueful glance. “You were right about the vomit getting everywhere.”

  Well, that cinched it. He couldn’t get to the lounge or the mess without going through the flight deck, and he wasn’t going anywhere near there until it was cleaned up. He might as well stay and help clean up down here.

  He moved to the opposite side of the cargo bay and began collecting items. The room fell silent. He glanced over his shoulder. Kyra looked away just as he looked up, as if she’d been watching him. He frowned; she was hard to figure. She sure seemed timid, but he wasn’t sure how someone so timid could have gotten the nerve to get herself out of a settlement and out here into space. They didn’t just let people off settlements for the asking. Access to the space elevator off the surface was tightly controlled. Even if she’d been granted permission to go up to Capital City, she’d have had to beg, borrow, or stole transport off the station. She would have had to look someone in the eye and make more than two words of conversation to do that.

  “How’d you learn to cook?” he blurted out. He hadn’t meant to ask the question, but he was genuinely curious how she could have discovered such an obscure skill on a settlement. And God, the woman could cook, that was for sure. He was fast becoming set on the evening ritual of gathering around the dining room table with the rest of the crew and passengers as they sampled whatever concoction Kyra had made that day. Sometimes it was just gussied up Re-Con—the basic kit but with extra spices or a bit of fresh vegetable added that made it taste like something out of this world; sometimes, it was something she’d invented, combining the Re-Con parts in new and inventive ways, and those meals were straight out of Heaven.

  She shrugged. “Through little things, over many years. I wasn’t good at too many things, except making Re-Cons without ruining them. Food is too precious to waste in the settlements so anyone who could prepare them without ruining them was in charge of meals. Anyone who could prepare them without ruining them and get them to turn out palatable, well, that person gets stuck on meal duty permanently.”

  “I’m surprised they let you leave.” He was already ruing the day they reached New Dominica. It was going to be hard to go back to straight Re-Con and protein bars after this.

  Her mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “Well, it’s a skill, but it’s not a unique skill. Honestly, with my accident-proneness, they were happy to send me up to Capital City. That’s where I first encountered fresh food. I was astounded. We never saw anything like that on New Trinidad. But it was pretty basic stuff—just a bit of produce, mostly eaten raw as a supplement. Some of the transport crew who would come through Capital City would talk, though, about the food they had on First and Second Worlds. That was my first inkling there might be more to the universe. So, I decided to hitch a ride to New Curacao to see for myself. And then from there…” She shrugged again as she trailed off.

  “Why are you so set on going to New Dominica?” he asked. Ivy had filled him in on the fact that Kyra was a settlement cast off. For someone who’d grown up living hand-to-mouth, she sure did have some high-falutin’ dreams. It was akin to someone back in olden times who had been born and raised in a remote mountain village one day up and deciding to move to New York City. How would a body even imagine such a thing? A place like New Dominica would be a fairytale told to settler children at bedtime—a far-off, magical place without hunger or want. But no one would ever think they could actually get to such a place. Especially, when it took all you had just to stay alive every day. But somehow, this tiny slip of a girl had found the determination and wherewithal to do just that. He wasn’t surprised though; in the short time he’d known her, he’d seen how hard she worked. And she never complained.

  Kyra looked up at him quickly, a nervous expression on her face. She looked torn, as if not sure she should answer. Maybe she thought he was making fun of her. He wasn’t—not exactly. Sure, he thought the idea was far-fetched, but he was genuinely curious as to how she’d come up with it.

  “I mean,” he said, trying to sound friendlier, “it seems a strange thing to think up. How’d you decide on New Dominica? There’s lots of places closer.”

  Kyra shrugged as she moved across the room to dump her armful of items in the appropriate piles. “There’s not much call for cooks out here.”

  “Well… but it’s not like there isn’t any call. There’s cruise ships and food services on the various stations.”

  Kyra shrugged again as she returned to her side of the room to pick up more items. It seemed to be the only movement she was capable of making.

  “Th
e frontier…” She stopped speaking with a pained look; he wasn’t sure she was going to finish the sentence. She looked at him again and then dropped her eyes. “I’m not of much use in the frontier. I’m clumsy, and I’m small.”

  “Okay, but there’s places in between.”

  “Like where? I tried New Curacao and New Mustique and neither had jobs for a cook.”

  “Well, don’t be a cook then.”

  “I’m not good at anything else!”

  Derrick snorted. “What else have you tried? Settlements are pretty limited in the types of jobs they have. I think there’s a lot more to the world than you imagine—you might want to spend a bit more time looking around before you make a decision.” He wasn’t sure why he cared; it was her life, but something about this plan of hers rankled. Maybe it was because she didn’t seem to be giving herself much credit. Maybe it was the implied aspersion on living anywhere, especially in space, but a First World.

  Annoyed, he sorted the items in his arms into the correct piles and then re-crossed the room. He stooped to fish a Re-Con out from behind a pile of crates and almost missed hearing her reply.

  “What’s so wrong with New Dominica?”

  “Nothing,” he said straightening up. “It’s a place, like any other, I suppose. But First Worlds—things operate different there than out here. Everything there is bright and loud and fast. They have a lot of rules—some written, some not. It’s not quiet like it is out here. And they seem to care a lot about status and wealth.”

  “Sounds great!” Kyra snapped, angrily tossing items into the piles. She practically stomped to a far corner where she snatched up a set of power drivers. Apparently, he’d upset her, though he wasn’t sure why.

  “Well, if that’s what you like.”

  “It is!”

  “Well, that’s fine, then. But I can’t help but notice that if it was so fine, why do so many people leave on Arks? And why do they ship so many people off to the settlements?”

  That made her pause. He saw a look of surprise flash across her face.

  “Well, criminals…” she said weakly.

  “First Worlds sure do produce a lot of criminals for a place that’s supposedly so great. And you ever notice that a lot of the supposed crimes come down to nothing more than being poor?” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. Was she just incredibly stubborn or incredibly naïve?

  She had crossed to the piles and was slowly off-loading the items she was holding, as if thinking intently. That she was taking his words seriously should have made him smug with the satisfaction of being right; instead, it just annoyed him even more, though he couldn’t rightly say why. Maybe it was because she was still refusing to admit he was right or maybe it was because she seemed intent on proving him wrong. Either way, his words didn’t seem to be budging her opinion any.

  He crossed to the piles, coming to stop in front of her. She looked up at him with those fathomless golden eyes of hers, and strangely, he felt a sharp jolt of anger deep and low in his gut, though he didn’t know what he had to be angry about. He looked her in the eye. “You arriving on New Dominica with nothing but the shirt on your back and a handful of hopes—seems to me, that’s a good recipe for getting shipped back out to a settlement. Only, if they transport you as a criminal, you won’t ever get a chance to leave again.”

  A pained look crossed her face, as if he’d hurt her feelings in some way. Instantly, he felt like the lowest form of life, lower than the black scum that collected inside the rim of the latrines. He hadn’t meant to piss on her dreams, only to give her a fair bit of warning as to the way of the world. There was something sweet and naïve about her—how she’d made it out of a settlement with those traits, he’d never know. They wouldn’t stand her in good stead out here, that was for sure, and yet, he didn’t want to be the one that broke her spirit and hardened her. He liked her flashes of humor, the shy way she peeked out from under her thick eyelashes, and her quiet determination. He’d hate to see those traits harried out of her.

  She pressed her lips together, hurt shining in her eyes. “So where am I supposed to go instead?” she asked, her voice hard. “According to you, I’m not fit for a settlement and not good enough for a First World. I guess I should take a walk out an airlock and save everyone a lot of trouble?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest as a wave of frustration washed over him. “That’ s not what I meant. It’s just… there’s plenty of places in between. Maybe you should set your sights a little lower.”

  “Thank you for the concern,” she said in a tone that meant the exact opposite. “Excuse me.” She ducked her head and hurried toward the exit. He was pretty sure she was crying.

  “Crap.” He kicked the pile of tools at his feet. Pain shot through his foot as he connected, sending wrenches, hammers, and pry bars scattering in all directions. “Ow! Damn it!” He hopped on one leg, trying to grab his injured foot. He slipped on a screwdriver and went tumbling backwards. He landed hard on the metal-grated floor and lay still, the breath knocked out of him. He stared at the ceiling slowly counting to ten. That’s what he got for trying to be nice. That woman was going to be the death of him. Thank God it was only two and a half more weeks to New Dominica.

  Kyra paced around the kitchen nervously. She was at loose ends, having completed her assigned chores for the day. Derrick had glowered at her as she’d mopped floors, greased hatches, and cleaned drains down in the engine room. Ever since the argument in the cargo bay a few days ago, no matter how hard she’d worked or how clean the final product, nothing she’d done seemed to please him. It hadn’t helped matters much either when she’d stood up too quickly and kicked over the bucket of dirty mop water.

  “Christ on a crutch!” he’d shouted, jigging in place to keep his boots dry in the two inches of water covering the narrow space.

  “I’ll clean it up!” Kyra had cried, scrambling to right the buck and scoop water into it.

  Somehow, the mop had rolled across the floor when the bucket had gotten upended, coming to a stop by his feet. He’d stepped forward, onto the unseen mop handle, which then rolled beneath him, sending him off balance. He’s fallen backwards into the wall, slamming his shoulder hard. Kyra had only been able to watch the entire chain reaction in horror, her hands over her mouth.

  He hadn’t been seriously injured, but he’d been so annoyed, he’d stomped off, sending the elderly pilot, Harlan, down to supervise her, instead.

  Now, tired and frazzled, she sought refuge in the one place she knew she wouldn’t screw up—the kitchen.

  Tentatively, she opened cupboards, taking stock of the supplies. This was a working ship, so supplies beyond the basic necessities were scant. However, she did find the ingredients for shortbread cookies, and she set to work mixing up a batch. In a few minutes, the comforting scent of freshly baked cookies wafted through the air.

  This, she decided, was pretty much the only time she was happy and at east—when she was in the kitchen. Here, she wasn’t all thumbs. Here, she didn’t have to make conversation or try to be clever. Here, she could just relax and be herself.

  There’ll be a job for you in New Dominica, she thought, trying to convince herself of the inviolability of this statement. The conversation with Derrick in the cargo hold still had her rattled. His words had stung—he thought her so useless that he didn’t even think she could find a place on a planet as full of luxury and idleness as New Dominica—but they had reflected her own fears. What if she really was worthless?

  As she measured and mixed ingredients, she let her mind wander, trying to imagine what life might be like on New Dominica. When she’d passed through New Curacao and New Mustique, she’d only stopped on the space station orbiting above the planets. She hadn’t taken the elevator down to either planet’s surface, so technically, the only planet she’d ever seen was New Trinidad—and it was a primitive stage two settlement, full of crude shacks and empty infrastructure projects—giant greenhouses for sust
ained agriculture, dams and aquifers, basic mining operations. There hadn’t yet been enough laborers to put any of that infrastructure into use so there had been a weird, haunted quality to the place. She actually had no idea what a full colony or a developed Second World was really like.

  She frowned as Derrick’s words came back to her. When had she first gotten the idea to try her luck on New Dominica? It seemed the idea had always been there, but that wasn’t so. Most of her life had been spent just trying to get through the day. She wasn’t sure when the idea to leave the settlement had first come to her. And, at first, her only goal had been getting to a Second World. But after New Curacao and New Mustique, she’d decided that Second Worlds still weren’t good enough. It had seemed only logical to try a First World. But she’d never really considered anything in between—searching for work on the various capital cities she’d passed through or looking for work on a transport or a cruise ship. For some reason, she’d only focused on planets. Maybe, unconsciously, she’d been blinded by the innate preference for life on a rock that came from being born on a rock. Perhaps Derrick was right—she had overlooked much more realistic prospects for a vain hope.

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth. He was also right that there were more jobs in the galaxy than she had been exposed to or ever thought of. Out in the settlements, there were only a handful of occupations to choose from and applicants were matched based on natural aptitude. But there were certainly far more occupations in the universe than she’d ever tried her hand at. It was great that she had a natural aptitude for cooking, but who knew; maybe she had an aptitude for other things, as well. It certainly couldn’t hurt to spend a bit of time at their next stop looking around and sussing out what other types of opportunities existed. No sense in limiting herself; the more options she had, the better.