by T. M. Catron
“Sorry—I can’t stay, Harrison. Tight schedule.”
“You haven’t seen me in over a year, and that’s the ‘hello’ I get?” He lifted his mask expectantly.
Rance sighed before sliding her mask over for him. Harrison stood on his tiptoes and kissed her cheek. He smelled sweaty, like he hadn’t bathed in days.
And he was already pouting—a sure sign he was drunk. His bright blue eyes peered up at her sorrowfully. “When are we going to get married, Rance?”
Rance rolled her eyes. “When Triton stops sending Unity to interfere with the Outer Colonies.”
So, never.
Now Harrison rolled his eyes. “We are betrothed, you know. I could tell your father you’re on Xanthes, get proceedings going.”
Rance glared at him. “Don’t you dare, Harrison McConnell!”
“If you didn’t want to get married, why’d you consent to the arrangement?”
“I didn’t—”
Rance glanced around, then grabbed Harrison’s shoulder and steered him back toward the tavern. She pushed him through the door and ducked her head to enter. A wall of noise hit her before her eyes adjusted. Glasses clinking. Voices raised in drunken tirades. She removed her mask to see better, and then wished she hadn’t.
The smell almost sent her to her knees. By the Founders, every time. She always forgot how horrible these places were. The room smelled like cats had died under every table. That stink alone would have been enough to send Rance back to the Streaker, but it had mixed with sweat and hair and alcohol to form a fetid odor all its own. She fought the urge to gag as they made their way around tables to the bar.
“What are you having?” she asked Harrison.
“A Blue.”
Her nose was already wrinkled in disgust, so it couldn’t turn up any more. She settled for a sneer. Still gripping his shoulder much harder than necessary, Rance ordered the drink and steered Harrison to an empty table in the corner. He didn’t argue as she pushed him down into a hard metal chair.
“You can’t say things like that out in the open, Harrison,” she began.
He held up his hand, signaling her to wait while a young woman in a dirty white tunic brought his drink. It glowed blue and smelled like rotten eggs. Harrison didn’t seem to mind, downing the horrible thing in one swallow. When he finished, he waved his hand at the bartender for another. Then he fixed Rance with a less-than-focused stare. “Not having anything?”
“You know I don’t drink.”
“Right. Gotta keep up appearances and all that.”
“Speaking of keeping up appearances, don’t you ever mention our engagement in public again. If Unity hears I’ve been skipping planet on a Founders’ Marriage, they’ll throw me in prison, and you with me. And they won’t let us out until we’re married.”
“Then stop running. Go see the Founder official with me. It’ll be fun.” Harrison listed to starboard as he talked, reminding Rance of just how fun a marriage to this buffoon would be.
“Remember our deal?” she asked through gritted teeth.
Harrison straightened and managed to fix his piercing blue eyes on her. “I’m not likely to forget it,” he said with a sobriety she wouldn’t have thought possible ten seconds ago.
“Good. Then see that you keep your end of the bargain. And don’t accidentally let slip you saw me, either.” Rance leaned over the table, staring straight into his stupid, eager face. “Because if I’m ever forced to marry you, Harrison McConnell, I’ll make sleeping under this table seem like a vacation.”
“I’ve done that, actually—slept under this table. It wasn’t half bad. I woke up and ordered a drink before the morning station call.”
Rance sat back in her seat with a huff. He was impossible. And thick-headed. And drunk. And incompetent. And just because her father had arranged their marriage as part of a business deal didn’t mean Rance was going to get suckered into going through with it. Seeing Harrison again reminded her why she’d stolen her dowry and run.
“Why are you on Xanthes, anyway?” Harrison asked as the serving girl brought him another Blue.
Rance crossed her arms. “None of your business.”
“Looking for a CO, huh?”
“What?” How did he know?
“Saw the posting. That’s how I knew you were here.”
“You’re not as stupid as I give you credit for.”
He signed her a rude gesture and hiccuped. “I know a guy who’d do the job.”
“Oh you do, do you?” Rance looked around again, half-expecting Harrison’s friend to burst out of the shadows with a list of fake credentials.
Harrison shot her a disparaging look. “He’s not here. You two would make a good pair—he doesn’t drink either.”
“Well thanks very much, but I’m capable of finding my own CO. I don’t need your recommendation.”
“You might, though. I may have let slip to the port authority that there’s an unauthorized ship at the docks.”
“The Streaker is not unauthorized!” she hissed. “And you can’t blackmail me.”
“Why? Because you’re already blackmailing me?”
Rance wanted to kick him—only because he made a fair point. Well, no, that wasn’t the only reason.
Harrison put down his drink and leaned toward her. “You don’t have to promise to hire him. Just give him a shot.”
He was terrible at blackmailing; it wasn’t much of an incentive to meet the guy if she didn’t have to hire him. She shifted in her seat, aware that Harrison probably didn’t want to put her in a tight spot. At one time, he’d claimed to have feelings for her.
They had not been returned.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Roote.”
Rance snorted. “What kind of name is that?”
“What kind of name is Rance? If anyone knew your real name—”
“Okay, okay. I’ll meet him if it gets me out of this tavern any faster.”
Harrison put on his best smile and winked. “I’ll send him straight to your ship. You going to see your mother today?”
Rance stood. “Tell Roote to be at the Streaker with his credentials in an hour. If he’s late, no deal.”
Harrison raised his glass in salute.
Rance stalked out of the tavern, anticipating the clean air outside. But the sandstorm was growing worse, polluting any fresh air she might have found.
She’d been in such a good mood. Well, okay, not really. She hated landing on Xanthes, but this day could have gone better. The captain put on her mask and thanked the Founders it would hide her face from any more curious eyes.
At least a visit with her mother would cheer her. Rance hadn’t seen her since the last trip to Xanthes eighteen months ago. She should have checked in more, but she didn’t want word getting back to her father that she kept in touch.
Davos was a cunning, powerful man. And like all powerful men, he liked getting his way. When his only child and sole heir to the family name had refused to marry under the Founders’ Decree, he’d sworn to hunt Rance to Triton and beyond.
Her father was of the line of Founders nobility, a direct descendant of the original colonists on Xanthes. As such, his family was expected to adhere to special regulations. One of the worst was the Founders’ Marriage Decree. On Xanthes, commoners had the freedom to choose whom they married, but the Founders arranged their children’s marriages to keep the money in the noble families.
Rance didn’t care much for Davos—or his threats. She’d had decent childhood memories of him. He wasn’t abusive like some of the other Founders they associated with. Nor was he cheap: he’d spared no expense raising Rance, sending her to the best schools, making sure she got into the Flight Academy that Xanthes was famous for. And, of course, arranging her marriage into the wealthiest family on the planet.
A knot formed in Rance’s throat. Her father should have protected her from that decree. Would have, maybe, if he hadn’t made such a name for
himself among the Founders. As his circle of influence had expanded, his power to change his family’s fate diminished.
Xanthes, hellish dust-hole that it was, was an important Outer Planet. Although it stank and Rance couldn’t breathe without getting purple sand up her nose, it was the most profitable mining colony in that sector of the galaxy. As such, it enjoyed a certain status that allowed it a direct line to Unity and Triton. Her father coveted that connection more than anything else—including her.
Rance passed through the market’s last crowds and turned down a narrow side passage. The multi-colored boxes forming the housing units were brighter in this section of the city, where the dust didn’t quite get into the small nooks and crannies. Still, she kept her mask on as she approached her mother’s door.
One look told her Jane was off-world: the tight, guarded seals around the purple door were engaged, the windows shuttered with heavy metal. And the front step bore a sand dune almost up to Rance’s knees.
Great. She should have stayed on the Streaker; then she could have avoided Harrison altogether. She wasn’t a bit curious about Fruit—or Roote, or whatever his name was. Another drifter, no doubt, looking for a job so he could get plastered every night.
But Rance didn’t allow that kind of behavior on her ship. And it would be an easy reason to dismiss whatever credentials he might have, if any.
She turned and took the long way around to the docks, keeping her mask on and hunching over to conceal her height and blend in with the workers headed home for the day. She’d been wrong about the sandstorm. Purple grains of sand pelted down harder, biting into the exposed bits of skin on her face.
Then, the sirens went off.
Chapter Two
By the time Rance reached the Star Streaker, her sour mood had turned even fouler. Tally had put up the shields to protect the ship from the torrent of sand. As a result, the sandstorm and the shields were interfering with her comm and NNR, and Rance couldn’t even get through to pound on the door. Her ZOD glitched out, sending lines of static through the vision of her right eye.
After running away from her father, Rance had hacked her implant so he couldn’t track her. But the hack caused glitches at the most inopportune moments—like during sandstorms, when she was locked out of the Star Streaker.
Rance shouted, but the howl of the wind drowned out her voice.
She stood outside the hull, fuming while sand and wind whipped the hair out of her braid and into a tangled mess. Then she remembered the emergency button on her comm, which used the same frequency as the ship’s anti-weapons systems. Rance pressed it, sending an alarm to the ship. Tally had poked fun at her for still using the outdated technology. After all, their new navy flight suits and Rance’s NNR tracked the crew’s vitals. But as the shields went down and the door began to open, Rance congratulated herself for keeping the old stuff around, too.
As soon as the ramp lowered, she stormed onto it and into the hold. Sand blew in with her, the furious wind matching her foul mood and engulfing her in a purple cloud. For a moment she couldn’t see, and groped her way toward the stairs as the door closed.
Instead of finding the stairs, Rance bumped into a very tall man standing inside.
“Oops, sorry about that!” he said. He reached out as if to steady her, which did nothing for her mood.
The outside door sealed with a slight hiss. As the whirl of sand abated, Rance saw Tally standing in the cargo bay, too.
“Who are you?” Rance asked, shaking the sand out of her hair. It flew out from her in another haze of purple. For a moment, the man stared, his mouth slightly open.
“Who’s the mute?” Rance asked Tally. She pulled off her mask, and more sand fell onto the floor.
“Captain,” Tally said, “this is Roote. He said he has an appointment with you about the CO position. Did I do right by letting him in?”
“Oh,” Rance said, dumbstruck. Roote didn’t look at all like she had expected. But then, she hadn’t really given him much thought.
“You’re the captain?” Roote asked.
“Problem?”
“No, I just didn’t… Your name suggests a male captain.”
“Well, I’m a woman. Go figure.” Rance finished shaking out her hair and then turned her gaze on Roote to get a better look at him.
At least two inches taller than she—not good for the cramped bridge. Dark hair, tied back in a short ponytail—could get caught in machinery. His brown tunic was simple, that of a peasant or miner, not an officer. He didn’t look drunk though, which was a point in his favor. And he was fit, lean but not skinny. Overall, he looked much better than most of Harrison’s friends.
In the few seconds Rance took to sweep her eyes over him, Roote seemed to recover. “Is the position still open?” His voice was low and soothing—calm was the best way Rance could describe it.
“Depends on your credentials.”
“I understand from Harrison that you only take on the best. I’m surprised you agreed to see me.”
“Yes, well, Harrison was insistent. But just because I agreed to see you doesn’t mean you have a job.”
“Of course not. You want my credentials now?”
Rance nodded and motioned for him to follow her to the cramped galley just off the cargo bay. The room held a table long enough to seat three on each side of the bench. The walls were lined with cabinets, reheating chambers, and freezers. Warm, yellow light bathed the room in a comforting glow.
Her handset beeped as Roote transmitted his credentials. Rance squeezed around the table and sat down, crossing her arms and putting her feet up on the metal finish. To his credit, Roote remained standing, waiting for an invitation to sit.
Imagine that—one of Harrison’s friends has manners.
Rance cleared her throat and said, “I’m listening.”
“I graduated top of my class at the Academy.”
“What house?”
“Polaris.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
Two years before Rance. She nodded for him to continue while she opened his file and flipped through his accomplishments. They pushed through to her ZOD, but she transferred them back to her handset so she could see Roote better.
“Since then I’ve worked a Destroyer, a freighter, and a Renegade.”
Rance couldn’t help but be impressed. The Renegades were among the most powerful ships in the Galaxy—and the most demanding to serve on. “Tell me about your time on the Renegade.”
“It was an apprenticeship, of sorts.”
“Of sorts?”
“It wasn’t on the books. I knew the CO and worked closely with him, but officially I was a civilian contractor.”
“How did that happen?”
“The Academy put in a word for me.”
If the Academy had given Roote a reference, he must have been talented, indeed.
“And you don’t like wearing flight suits?” she asked, looking at his plain tunic.
“I don’t mind them, but they tend to stand out. The tunic is more comfortable.”
Rance removed her feet from the table and leaned forward. “So, Roote, what are you doing here? I hope Harrison didn’t fill your head with a bunch of nonsense.”
“On the contrary, he told me this is a quiet cargo ship. That you’re a fair captain and you pay fair wages.”
“You get paid when I get paid. We split all profits equally.”
“That’s quite generous of you.”
“It also keeps me in business. Crew members rarely leave.”
He grinned. “Except COs.”
She frowned. “Harrison’s been telling tales.”
“He said you’ve had five COs since you got in the business. Four left of their own accord. One…”
Rance’s gut twisted, and she seethed a little that Harrison would talk about her affairs so freely with a stranger. “Terryn died in an unfortunate accident. He was the first and the best, I’m afraid. Since the
n no one’s quite been able to fit the bill, although the last one tried. I was sorry to see him go.”
“Why did he go, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He got a bigger gig on a Destroyer XS7211. It was a better promotion than anything I could give him.”
Rance sidestepped the fact that Rex had heartily disagreed with her about their last run. It was the final straw for Rex, who’d always wanted to go on to bigger jobs than Rance could provide.
Roote smiled again. “I guess the idea of promotion is out of the question on the Star Streaker.”
“Unless you want to be the captain. I’ll warn you though—I’m attached to my position.”
“You’ll hire me?”
“Interview’s not over yet, sunshine. Hand-to-hand combat?”
The first sign of discomfort crossed Roote’s features, a frown appearing for the briefest of moments before vanishing. “I was top of my class at the Academy.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I was too, but the guy below me couldn’t fight his way past a simple ion shield.”
“You went to the Academy?”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
He shrugged. “You don’t seem the type.”
“And what is ‘the type?’”
“Surely you’ve heard that before. You know what it’s like.”
“Yes, I do.” Rance drummed her fingers on the table, sizing him up one more time. “But I assure you, I ran with the best of them, and I don’t tolerate any kind of crude or unsavory behavior aboard my ship. I don’t think this is going to work.” She stood. “Thank you for applying.”
“Wha—?” Roote asked, his mouth open. “Do you think me crude and unsavory?”
“To be honest, yes. You’re one of Harrison’s friends.”
“Who said we were friends?”
“You did.”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
He had defaulted to “sir,” a true sign of the Academy, where cadets were addressed by it regardless of gender. Rance had never liked that, but she did like Roote’s bearing. And he wasn’t afraid to speak up, that was for sure.
“You can call me ‘Captain.’”
