Starflight

by Melissa Landers

  She was still making a mental list of her favorite animals when the group finished stocking the supply trailer. They descended the ramp dressed for the festival, Doran in a clean pair of coveralls, and the two ship hands in their usual canvas pants and tops. Kane explained that the auxiliary shuttle only seated two people, so she and Doran would ride on the trailer.

  Once they were under way, sitting side by side with their legs dangling over the edge, Doran extended a hand, palm up. “I need some fuel chips.”

  Solara eyed him skeptically. “For what?”

  “Why does it matter?” he snapped. “They’re my chips.”

  “Not while they’re strung around my neck,” she reminded him. For a moment he stared at the necklace as if tempted to rip it free, and she covered it with one hand while delivering a warning glare. “I don’t need a stunner to break your nose.”

  “Fine,” he huffed. “There’s a com-booth at the festival. I want to contact my father.”

  That’s exactly what she was afraid of.

  “No,” she said. “You can call him from the next outpost.”

  “But that’s days away!”

  “So?”

  “So by then he’ll probably think I’m dead. In case you’ve forgotten, I disappeared from my ship without a trace.”

  “I’m sure he can go a few days without hearing from you.”

  Doran looked at her like she’d sprouted horns. “You don’t know much about my family, do you?”

  She mirrored his expression. “I must’ve missed that lesson in school.”

  “My dad is all I have,” Doran muttered, and faced away. “We’re close. Close enough that I know he’s going crazy wondering if I’m okay.”

  Solara fingered her necklace and stared at the grass as it moved beneath her dangling feet. She felt a sympathetic tug for Doran, along with a heaping side of envy. Aside from Sister Agnes, no one on Earth would care if she ever returned, not even her parents. Especially not her parents. She remembered telling Doran that no one would miss him because his life didn’t matter. But he did matter, at least to his dad.

  “All right,” she decided. “But I’m coming with you. Not a word about me or what happened on the Zenith.”

  He huffed a dry laugh. “You mean how I tried to help you, and then you stabbed me in the back? Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

  “Help me?” she repeated, rounding on him as all her sympathy turned to dust. “The way I remember it, you almost helped me into a life of whoring.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be on Earth, begging for passage.”

  She blinked at him in shock. Did he really see it that way?

  “You showed more compassion to your girlfriend’s dog than to me,” she said. “Maybe I made some bad choices since then, but what I did was nothing compared to the way you crushed me under your boot for a month. People don’t treat each other like that.”

  His gaze mocked her. “You’re naive. People do far worse.”

  “Maybe. But I trusted you.”

  That seemed to get through to him. He took an interest in the ground, hiding behind the dark locks of hair that had fallen across his face. “Let’s focus on making it to the next outpost,” he said, and tugged at an earlobe. “Then we never have to see each other again.”

  “Fine by me.”

  They didn’t exchange another word until the cart stopped outside the fairgrounds.

  The auxiliary shuttle landed beside them, and Kane disconnected the towline while Cassia skipped—actually skipped—away to collect payment. Their smiles helped lighten Solara’s mood. She reminded herself of why she was here: spiced berries and sunshine.

  Not even Doran could ruin that.

  Hopping down from the cart, she turned to survey the fairgrounds.

  The familiar setup of white tents and wooden booths brought a grin to her lips, reminding her of a hundred fish fries and carnivals where she’d sold tickets to raise money for the group home. At this early hour, the festivities hadn’t begun, but the mouthwatering smell of fried dough began to sweeten the air. The scent reminded her of Sister Agnes’s funnel cakes, fried golden brown with extra powdered sugar. Wards of the diocese weren’t allowed many treats, but that was one of them, and Solara looked forward to it all year.

  A sudden prickling of heat stung her eyes. She never thought she’d miss the nuns, but it hurt to know she would never see them again. They had cared about her, in their own way. And in all fairness, she hadn’t always made it easy on them.

  “Are you crying?”

  Doran’s voice jerked her back to the present.

  “No,” Solara said, dabbing at her eyes. She led the way into the maze of tents and called over her shoulder, “Let’s get this over with before the fair starts. Then you’re on your own.”

  It didn’t take long to find the com-booth. She removed a fuel chip from her necklace and asked the attendant to exchange it for one minute of transmission—more than enough time for Doran to tell his father that he was safe. The attendant gave her change in local currency and unlocked the booth’s fiberglass door.

  Doran peered inside the closet-sized enclosure and frowned. “It’s tight in there.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before I paid,” she said, and stepped inside.

  The compartment resembled an old-time photo booth, with an adjustable seat facing a small screen. Doran sat down while Solara stood with her back pressed to the opposite wall, out of the camera’s view. The screen powered up, and Doran entered his father’s contact number.

  But nothing happened.

  “‘Transmission failed,’” he read aloud. “‘Number not in service.’” He entered the data two more times with the same results. “That’s weird. I’ll have to try Ava instead.”

  “Who?” Solara asked, but then the answer came. “Oh. Pink hair, black soul.”

  Doran glared at her and tapped the new contact information. The second transmission connected almost instantly, followed by a breathy “Hello?” Solara craned her neck to glimpse the screen just in time to see Miss DePaul’s eyes fly wide.

  “Dory!” the girl cried, then lowered her voice to a hiss. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  That wasn’t the reaction Solara had expected, and judging by Doran’s parted lips, he hadn’t seen it coming, either. His girlfriend didn’t seem worried about his disappearance, or particularly happy to hear from him.

  “I, uh,” he stammered. “I need you to send a message to my father.”

  “Where are you?” she asked, instead of Are you okay?

  “On Pesirus, but I’m going to Obsidian.” He leaned forward and stressed, “I’ll be at the next outpost in three days. Tell my father to have a ship waiting so I can do my job. He’ll know what that means.”

  Miss DePaul acted like she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “What happened to the girl you hired?” she asked. “The homely little indenture with the dirty clothes. You didn’t”—she gulped—“kill her, did you?”

  “What?” Doran jerked back. “Of course not!”

  Solara clamped her lips together, trying not to laugh at the idea of Doran using his perfectly manicured hands to kill her. He’d never do it. He might break a nail.

  Miss DePaul didn’t look convinced. “Then where is she?”

  “Right here with me, very much alive.”

  “She came with you? Of her own free will?”

  Doran cast a cutting glance at Solara, and she brought a finger to her lips as a reminder to keep their arrangement a secret. “I didn’t kidnap her,” he muttered darkly, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Then she’s more stupid than I thought,” Miss DePaul said. “To aid a fugitive when she’s already got a record.”

  Solara’s eyebrows jumped in perfect synch with Doran’s.

  “To aid a what?” he asked.

  “Dory, you know I love you, but I can’t get involved.” His girlfrien
d twisted a pink lock around her finger. “You understand, right?”

  Doran nodded absently while his cheeks turned waxy. Solara waved to get his attention and mouthed Fugitive? at him, but he stared right through her.

  “Is this a secure line?” he asked.

  “Totally,” Miss DePaul promised. “And I won’t tell anyone you called.”

  “Yes, please don’t. What happened after I left?”

  “They’re still trying to extradite you for all those indictments on Earth,” Ava whispered. “When you took off, they started tracking all the ships that—”

  The transmission ended with their prepaid minute.

  While Doran groaned and cradled his head between both hands, Solara processed what her ears were trying to tell her…which she still couldn’t believe. Doran was a fugitive from justice? Doran Spaulding—Mister unlike you, I’m not a lowly convict—had broken the law?

  “What did you do?” she asked him.

  “Nothing,” he whispered. “I swear.”

  “Sure. That’s what they all say.”

  She remembered how the outpost intercom had repeated, Passenger Spaulding, return to your ship. The Enforcers weren’t worried about the heir to the Spaulding throne. They were trying to extradite him. And she’d helped him escape.

  “The ship that chased us last night,” Solara realized, her stomach sinking. “They were after you, not me.” Which didn’t really matter. Because if the law caught up with them, everyone on board the Banshee would rot in a lifer colony. “And you just told your girlfriend where we are.”

  The booth seemed to shrink around her, and for once she understood how Doran felt about closets. She jerked open the door and stumbled outside, blinking against the sunshine while she turned in a clumsy circle. “We have to go,” she said. She didn’t know where the nearest Enforcer patrol was stationed, or how long it would take it to reach Pesirus, but the clock was already ticking. “What do we tell the crew?”

  “Nothing,” Doran replied from behind. He stepped out of the booth, looking calmer than any fugitive had a right to be. “They can’t find out who I am.”

  “We’re supposed to spend the whole day here,” she reminded him. “How do we convince them to leave?”

  “Easy. I’ll lie.” He nodded at the booth. “I just got word that my grandmother’s dying, and I have to rush to the nearest outpost for an Earthbound ship. We’re paid passengers. You heard the captain; business comes first.”

  “But you can’t go to that outpost anymore,” she said. “Your girlfriend knows—”

  “Yes, I can.” Doran brushed past her and strode back the way they’d come. “Because she won’t tell.”

  “Oh, please.” Solara chased after him and tugged his sleeve. “That airhead’s already folding like a deck of cards. I’d put money on…” She trailed off when a streak of movement in the background flashed between two vendor tents. When she peered between the next gap, she noticed a set of familiar dreadlocks flapping in the breeze behind their owners, who were sprinting toward the Banshee’s shuttle like the devil was on their heels.

  “Cassia and Kane,” Solara said, pointing. “Something’s wrong.”

  She and Doran jogged in that direction, then increased their speed to a full-on bolt when they saw the shuttle doors open and Kane hurtle himself into the pilot’s seat. At once, the engines hummed, sending a blast of warm air over them.

  “Wait!” Solara screamed while waving one arm.

  Cassia made eye contact just before leaping into the passenger’s seat. After darting a glance in the opposite direction, she made a hurry up motion and pointed at the rear hatch, which had begun a slow rise. Solara pumped her legs harder and faster while fear chilled her skin.

  What were they running from?

  The hatch was fully raised when she reached it, exposing a narrow cargo area behind the two front seats. Without slowing, she launched her body onto the floor and braced for Doran’s impact. He landed half on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs, and then the shuttle rose sharply while the rear hatch was still open.

  “Grab on to something,” Kane shouted as he veered the craft hard to the left.

  Solara gripped the back of the passenger’s seat with one hand and hooked the other around Doran’s waist. He wrapped a leg around both of hers, and together they held on for dear life while the hatch gradually closed.

  “Attention, Captain,” Cassia called through the com-link. “We’re coming in hot. The Daeva are here. I spotted them on foot, but their ship is probably nearby.” Her voice cracked, and she repeated, “The Daeva are here. Do you copy?”

  She pronounced it day-vuh, a word Solara had never heard before.

  The captain responded with a curse, and the noise of the ship’s engines roared to life in the background. “Don’t bother landing,” he ordered. “I’ll meet you halfway. Use the tow cables to dock. With any luck, we’ll be long gone before they’re airborne.”

  “Copy that,” Cassia said.

  “Do you have your pills?” the captain asked, his voice dark as the grave.

  “No.” Cassia sounded strangled when she answered. “It’s been so long since the last time that I hoped—”

  He swore again and cut off the link.

  Solara tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. She felt Doran’s heart thumping against her shoulder and whispered, “What’s a Daeva?”

  “I don’t know.” He was still panting from their mad dash across the fairgrounds. “And I don’t want to find out.”

  That was twice they’d agreed on something.

  Soon the floor rumbled and the Banshee appeared in front of them. Two metallic cables snaked out from the shuttle, latching onto the main ship with a loud click that shook the hull. A sudden dropping sensation, followed by the Banshee’s signature screech, told Solara the ship had accelerated into the atmosphere without bothering to dock the shuttle. There was only one reason for a captain to abuse his equipment like that, and the answer made her shudder.

  Once the tow cables had reeled them in, they all clambered out of the craft and through the docking door leading to the ship’s cargo hold, then jogged up the stairs to the galley.

  Renny was waiting there for them. Sweat shimmered along his brow and upper lip, and his hand trembled as he held out four necklaces made of fibrous cords, each bearing a black pendant no larger than a thumbnail. Cassia and Kane took one and worked the cords over their dreadlocks. Solara noted that Renny already wore his, but he’d tucked the pendant beneath his shirt.

  “What’s this?” she asked him.

  He moved closer and showed her that the pendant was a locket of sorts. He opened it, and a pea-size capsule rested inside.

  “Good old-fashioned cyanide,” he said. When her eyes widened, he opened his jacket to reveal a pulse pistol tucked beneath his waistband. “We won’t go down without a fight. It’s just a precaution. If they take you, all you have to do is bite down on this, and it’ll be over in minutes.”

  “A suicide pill?” She stared at the tiny sphere, so innocuous it could pass for a breath mint. Was he actually suggesting she take her own life instead of surrendering to capture? He couldn’t be serious. But as much as she wanted to believe this was an elaborate prank, the absence of color in Renny’s face wouldn’t allow it.

  Doran must have felt the same way, because his lips barely moved when he asked, “Who’s after us? And what’ll they do if they catch up?”

  Before Renny had a chance to answer, the ship lost speed, and inertia flung them to the galley floor. Solara cracked her elbow on the way down, sending a jolt of white-hot pain along her nerve endings. She cried out and pressed a hand over the joint while peering around the room for smoke or flickering lights—any indication that they’d been hit. All she detected was a hint of static in the air, but she didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

  The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I pushed the accelerator too hard and something blew,” he
said. “Lara, give me a status report from the engine room.”

  She scrambled to her knees and told Doran to meet her there with her tool kit. But before she made it out of the galley, Renny stopped her and slipped a cord over her head.

  “Just in case,” he said.

  If I can’t fix the accelerator, she thought, we’ll all die.

  Her heart pounded and her palms turned to ice. She removed the necklace and gave it back to him, then turned and darted down the stairs when he tried to object.

  Now failure wasn’t an option.

  Doran stumbled twice while dashing to the engine room, but the tool kit was wedged under his arm as snugly as any football he’d carried into the end zone. If there was a way to get this clunker of a ship moving again, he’d bust ass to make it happen. He had no intention of eating cyanide today.

  He skidded to a halt outside the open doorway and locked eyes with Solara. The damage had to be bad because she stood there motionless, clutching a hunk of metal at the end of one limp arm while her gaze shone with tears. The whir of moving parts in the adjoining room drowned out the sound of her breathing, but her chest rose and fell fast enough that Doran could tell she would faint if she didn’t snap out of it.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked as gently as he could. He wanted to scream at her—to tell her to quit standing the hell around and do something, but she was obviously under enough pressure. If he pushed her any harder, she might shut down completely.

  She didn’t move, just dropped her gaze to the engine part in her hand. “One of the rods snapped off.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded and a tear spilled free. “If I had six hours.”

  “Jury-rig it,” he said. “The repair doesn’t have to last forever, just long enough to get us out of here.”