“That’s it?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see if it worked.”
They returned to the air-lock, and the interior door slid aside without a problem.
“See? An easy fix,” Solara said, beaming a little.
Instead of thanking her for the repair, the bald man peered at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then he held up an index finger and turned his back to make a quiet call. When he faced her again, he announced, “Demarkus invites you to join his table.”
Solara’s prideful grin faltered. She wanted nothing to do with Demarkus. Besides, nobody had told her about pirate dinner protocol. She might use the wrong fork and start a war. “Thanks for the offer,” she said. “But I…uh…have a long trip back, and my captain needs this part.”
Right away she knew she’d put her foot in her mouth.
“Our chief,” the bald man repeated as if talking to a five-year-old, “invites you to his table, an honor extended to few outside the brotherhood.” He didn’t say anything more, but his tone made it clear that this wasn’t really a choice.
“Of course,” Solara said, tapping her right ear. “Forgive me. I lost part of my hearing in a cage fight last year. I would love to dine with your chief.”
The guard ushered her inside with instructions to follow the passageway to the great hall at the center of the ship. She knew she was nearly there when the scents of rust and metal gave way to roasted meat and baking bread. Her stomach gurgled loud enough to be heard over the growing roar of voices, and she mashed a silencing hand over it. She couldn’t afford to show weakness here, not even hunger. But as it turned out, her appetite shriveled like a winter leaf once she reached the main hall.
The belly of the ship was madness.
Dozens of long tables dominated the space, their benches filled to the brim with bawdy crewmen. Their laughter, thick with drink, competed with shouts coming from a raised stage in the center of the room where a bare-knuckle fistfight was under way. One boxer strayed too close to the ring’s invisible ropes, and a jolt of electricity boomeranged him into his opponent’s waiting fist. The fighter’s head snapped back, and he collapsed to the tune of mingled cheers and groans. In the crowd, money exchanged hands and the victors rushed to the bordello booth to spend their spoils.
This was what she’d expected from pirates.
Another armed guard, this time a muscled woman with daggers tattooed across her collarbones, approached and asked, “Lara?”
Solara raised her chin. “Yes.”
“This way,” the woman said while turning into the crowd.
Doing her best to slow her breathing like Doran had taught her, Solara focused on the back of the woman’s head while following through the room and up the stairs to the stage. A private table stood opposite the boxing ring, and four men dined there, tearing hunks of meat from long rib bones. Solara identified their leader at once.
It was easy.
Authority draped over him as clearly as the bloodred sash on his tunic. His companions showed deference in the lowering of their heads, which wasn’t hard to do when he dwarfed everyone in the room. Demarkus was a mountain of a man, resting his ham-sized fists on the table as he scanned the crowd. There was a certain shrewdness in his gaze, one that warned he had brains as well as brawn. His face, framed by long, flowing locks of chestnut hair, had probably been handsome once. But now scars and lumps marred his skin, sun-leathered and stretched tight over his bones in a way that made it impossible to guess his age. His dark eyes landed on Solara and widened a fraction before sparking bright with interest.
“Lara,” he called while standing from his seat. He made a cutting hand gesture, and all the men at the table left without a word. Then he used that same hand to indicate the spot beside him and unleashed an unexpectedly charming smile.
Solara knew better than to underestimate him. She kept her lips in a flat line when she sat down. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m honored to share your table.”
“The honor is mine.” He lowered to his seat while studying her conviction codes. Much like his guards, he lifted an appreciative brow. “Grand theft and conspiracy, at such a young age?”
Tearing off a chunk of bread, she told him, “I take what I want.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I forgot my surroundings.”
He delivered a long, silent look. “What did you steal?”
“Bullet tram parts,” she told him, seeing no reason to hide the truth. “To sell on the underground market.”
“You have mechanical training, then?”
She nodded. “It’s what I do.”
“A useful skill,” he mused. “I heard that you fixed the air-lock door. We’ve been wrestling with it for weeks.”
“It was nothing.”
“And clearly you’re a fighter, too.” Using an index finger, he traced the outline of her cheekbone. “Who provoked you, little bird?”
She pulled away and met his eyes. “The last man who touched my face without permission.”
Demarkus laughed in a rolling chortle that might have warmed her heart if he hadn’t trapped her on a ship full of convicts. “I like your fire,” he said. “There’s no reason to fear unwanted attention from me. There are plenty of women on board who do give me their permission.” He speared a hunk of meat with his knife and lifted it for show. “You should know that I take care of my own. Plenty of food, a fair share of the spoils, a private bunk. If you swear fealty to me, you could lead your own team in five years’ time.”
“I’m not looking to join a crew,” she told him.
“What if I sweeten the deal?”
“It wouldn’t make a difference.”
“A signing bonus?”
She shook her head.
“But I need a mechanic,” he said. “Is there nothing I can say to convince you?”
“Your offer is flattering, but I’m happy where I am.”
“A pity.” He took a bite and muttered, “The loss is mine.”
They ate in silence for a while, until two young men approached the table and asked Demarkus to settle a property dispute. The pair testified that their dead roommate had promised both of them his laser pistol, but he’d left no written will. They each laid a coin on the table and asked their chief to declare a challenge, whatever that meant.
Demarkus leaned close to murmur in Solara’s ear. “What do you think, little bird? If you were chief, how would you decide?”
She made a show of studying the men, trying not to let Demarkus see how his nearness made her shoulders clench. “I would take the pistol for my armory,” she said. “Or sell it and use the money to benefit my whole crew.”
He chided her in a teasing tsk, tsk. “Spoken like a Solar League politician. I thought you’d have more imagination than that.”
“How will you decide?” she asked.
“Our law is clear in this case. They’ll compete for the pistol in a battle of my choosing.” Addressing the men, Demarkus announced, “Long staffs in the antigravity room. Last one conscious wins.”
The men bowed and each laid another coin on the table, then backed away.
Demarkus asked her, “You don’t know much about pirate law, do you?”
“Nothing at all,” she admitted.
“It favors the power of individuals over the group. So the fittest rise to the top, and the weakest die out. That’s how we differ from the Solar League. We maintain order, but not at the expense of our strength. When my chief grew weak, I challenged him for control. Now he works in the galley, and I rule the Brethren in this quadrant.”
“Only this quadrant?” she asked. “What about the others?”
“Each has its own chief, and we stay within our territory. It keeps things civil.”
“Civil,” she repeated. “Sounds kind of boring for pirates.”
“Perhaps, but at least our justice makes sense. Can you say the same for the Solar League?” He drag
ged a finger across her tattooed knuckles. “Among us, your markings are a badge of honor because they prove you’re not afraid to follow your own rules. You would do well here, earn riches most men will never lay eyes on.”
Not wanting to encourage him, she stayed silent.
Demarkus reached behind his neck and unclasped a gold choker that his tunic had concealed. He laid the necklace on the table so she could inspect its craftsmanship, hammered flat and polished to a high shine. She’d never seen real gold before, at least not this close-up, and her fingertip itched to touch it.
“Go ahead,” he said. “It won’t bite.”
She noticed a script of Latin engraved in the metal. “What does that say?”
“It’s one of our oldest tenets.”
Of course it was. For criminals, they sure had a lot of laws.
“Try it on,” he said with an encouraging nod.
“No, that’s all right.” She couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but something about this felt wrong. “I meant it when I said I’m not looking to join—”
“A bargain, then,” he interrupted. “If you put on that necklace and give me the pleasure of seeing you in it, I won’t ask you to take it off.”
She cast a sideways glance at him. “It’d be mine to keep?”
“For life.”
Part of her bristled at the offer, but a much larger part was already calculating how many years of rations it would buy. She brushed a thumb over the warm gold, more enticed than she wanted to admit. This necklace could be her ticket to a comfortable new life.
“All right,” she decided, and lifted the gold to her throat.
As soon as she fastened the clasp, a grin broke out on Demarkus’s face, so full of cunning that the hairs on her forearm stood on end. It was then that she noticed a second, identical choker around his neck.
“You wear it well, little bird,” he said, lips stretched wide over his teeth. “Welcome to the family.”
Twenty-nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds.
She should be here by now.
Doran stretched his spine and peered across the hangar for Solara, but the only sign of life was the pirate who’d delivered the propellant cell twenty minutes ago. The guy was bald and had a second pair of eyes tattooed on his dome, and at the moment, he was leaning against a metal door, sucking on a synthetic cigar. His biceps were bigger than his head.
Doran shifted in his seat. Maybe he should wait five more minutes.
But then he remembered the feel of Solara’s trembling hand, and he knew he’d already waited for her too long. If she was brave enough to barter with pirates, the least he could do was check on her. A few deep breaths later, he exited the shuttle and approached the guard, who he’d secretly nicknamed Four-Eyes.
“No refunds,” Four-Eyes said, the cigar bouncing between his lips.
Doran tucked both hands in his pockets and faked a yawn. “I’m here for Lara. She wandered off half an hour ago.”
The man shook his head. “She’s dining with the chief. You’ll have to—”
A riotous cheer from inside the ship interrupted him, so loud that the metal floor hummed beneath their boots. Four-Eyes touched an earpiece to communicate with someone out of sight, and then his mouth curved into a smile so wide he nearly dropped his cigar.
“Well, I’ll be a piss swiller,” the man said to himself. “The chief took a bride!”
“Just now?” Doran asked. He didn’t give a damn about the chief’s love life, but he sensed an opportunity to get inside the ship. “Then let’s go toast the poor bastard!” Behind his hand, he added, “There’s not enough ore on Mars to put a ring on my finger.”
“You and me both, my friend.”
Apparently, confirmed bachelorhood was all it took to unite them as brothers. Four-Eyes slung his weapon over his back and opened the sliding metal door. Then he hooked an arm around Doran’s neck and led him to the source of the festivities, a great room at the heart of the ship. The sight of a thousand bodies stopped Doran short.
He nudged his new friend and shouted, “Where’s your chief?”
Four-Eyes pointed above a sea of heads to a stage at the center of the room, where Solara stood beside a hulking Goliath twice her height. Doran had to do a double take. He’d never seen a human being so large, not even last summer during Super Bowl Camp. It was no wonder the pirates had made Demarkus their chief; he could crush a man with a pinch of his fingers. Solara looked like a child beside him, hugging herself tightly with both arms, her blackened eyes round and unblinking.
But the two of them stood alone onstage. Where was the bride?
Mugs of ale started circulating, handed down the tables until Four-Eyes snagged one for himself and handed another to Doran. After they each took a gulp, Four-Eyes lifted his mug toward the stage. “A bit young and slight, that one. Not his usual type.” He cupped a hand in front of his chest as if balancing a cantaloupe. “He tends to favor bigger ladies, if you know what I mean.”
Doran inhaled his ale, then coughed so hard he almost expelled both lungs. He wrenched his gaze to the stage and paid attention this time, noticing the way Demarkus showcased Solara like a prize he’d won at the fair. She fingered a golden necklace at her throat, which certainly wasn’t there half an hour ago. But nothing in her watery eyes led him to believe she’d chosen this union willingly.
“That’s my crewmate,” Doran shouted.
Four-Eyes laughed. “Not anymore.”
“But I know her,” he said. “She would never consent to this.”
The din of the crowd had died down enough for a few men to overhear. One of them cocked a warning brow and said, “The girl wears his token. She put it on of her own free will, in front of witnesses.”
“A token?” Doran asked. “That’s what passes for a wedding with you people? She probably didn’t understand what she was doing.”
The man shrugged. “Ignorance of our law is no defense. They’re wed.”
“Okay, so they’re wed,” Doran said. “How do we undo it?”
His question drew the interest of another nearby group, who silenced their conversation to listen in. Four-Eyes studied Doran’s face warily before telling him, “There’s only one way to break a marriage bond.”
“How?” Doran demanded.
“One of us can challenge him for the bride.” Four-Eyes glanced at his comrades and let out a barking chortle. “But who’s fool enough to do that?”
While the men joined him in laughter, Doran peered across the crowd at Solara, who seemed to have shrunk an inch. Her skin was the color of almond milk, pale white against purple bruises. Soon her eyes met his and widened with the unmistakable relief of a lost soul who’d found her only friend in the world. She lifted her head in an obvious show of strength, but her gaze shimmered. And then her proud chin began to wobble.
Something behind Doran’s breastbone cracked in half.
He lost control of his vocal cords and heard himself say, “I’ll do it.”
For the span of two heartbeats, there was silence all around.
He repeated, louder, “I challenge him.”
The pirates must have craved a night’s entertainment more than a life of marital bliss for their chief because cheers erupted from nearby, along with shouts of, “A challenge! A challenge for the bride!”
Four-Eyes clapped Doran on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward a step. “You’ve got titanium twins between your legs, my friend. What’s your name?”
Doran had rehearsed this answer in the shuttle, but it took a few tries to untie his tongue. “Daro,” he said. “Daro the Red.”
Four-Eyes lifted Doran’s hand in the air and hollered at the stage, “Daro the Red issues a formal challenge of combat for the girl!”
“Wait. Combat?” All the blood left Doran’s face. He’d assumed the challenge would involve athletics—target shooting, or a race, perhaps. He’d never engaged in combat before, unless varsity football counted. “Can’t we do so
mething else?”
But it was too late. Four-Eyes began pulling him through the crowd. Rough palms slapped his shoulders as he passed, while unseen men shouted, “Good on ya, boy!” and “Die well, you crazy bastard!”
Doran’s legs went numb somewhere along the way, and he felt like a wooden marionette by the time he climbed the stairs to the platform. His feet seemed to know what awaited him there, because they kept sticking to the planks, forcing him into a jerky dance across the stage until he stopped in front of a pair of boots large enough to house an elephant.
When Doran craned his neck up—and then up some more—to look Demarkus in the eyes, he was grateful he’d used the bathroom recently. Because a few of his internal parts simply let go, surrendering before the fight had even begun.
After Demarkus finished sizing him up, which didn’t take long, he beamed as if Doran had given him the best wedding present ever. “So this is my challenger?” he asked with a grin.
“Daro the Red, Chief,” said Four-Eyes. The man still had an arm wrapped around Doran’s shoulders. “The girl’s pilot.”
“And her lover,” Demarkus added.
“No.” The clarity of Doran’s voice surprised even himself. He glanced at Solara and said, “Her friend.” It felt strange calling himself that, but if combat with a seven-foot-tall pirate chief didn’t upgrade them to friends, nothing would.
Demarkus scratched his chin. “How old are you, boy?”
“Old enough. Eighteen.”
The pirate brought both hands together and studied Doran like a proud parent. “I command a thousand men. Seasoned fighters with three times your grit. And do you know how long it’s been since someone challenged me?”
Doran shook his head.
“Five years.”
That’s because your men are smart, Doran thought.
“You’ve got more guts than sense,” Demarkus said. “I respect that. Traditionally, the challenged party chooses the weapons, but I defer that decision to you.”
Doran turned to Four-Eyes for a translation.
“He’s giving you the advantage,” Four-Eyes whispered. “What’s your weapon of choice? Pistols? Staffs? Clubs?” When that didn’t yield a response, he added, “Long blades? Spears? Pulse rifles?”
Starflight Page 12
