“I could do that,” he replied. “But I’d be lying.”
Solara blew out a breath and strapped a gel pack around her ankle while Renny tugged at the cuffs of his dress coat, trying to lengthen its sleeves. If he wanted to look dapper, he should’ve swiped a jacket from a taller man.
“Remember,” he said, holding up an ill-gotten credit fob. “I’m Uncle Jared, your mom’s brother, and you’re staying with me for the summer.”
He piloted their shuttle to the automated checkpoint scanner, two panels on either side of a narrow passageway monitored by a guard keeping watch from inside the station. While invisible beams swept the shuttle for weapons, Renny pressed his stolen fob to the side window. Casual browsing wasn’t permitted here, much like the auto-malls, and visitors had to supply proof of credit to gain entry. Through the station glass, the guard pointed a handheld scanner at the fob and asked Renny to state his name and identification code.
Renny tuned into the station’s frequency and said, “Jared Rogers,” followed by a series of letters and numbers. With no further delay, the guard disabled the security shield and allowed them to pass.
“That wasn’t hard,” Solara said, relaxing into her seat. She noticed that her palms had grown damp, and she glanced around for a place to wipe them, eventually settling on Renny’s sleeve. When he drew back in offense, she shrugged and pointed to her dress. “It was five thousand credits.”
He reached beneath his seat for a flask of Crystalline. “Take a sip of this, but don’t swallow,” he said. “Swish it around a little, then spit it in your hands and wipe it all over the front of you.”
She did as he asked but carefully avoided the dress. Even drunk, no girl in her right mind would spill booze on this gown. Leaning in, she asked, “Do I smell like a raging party?”
“Close enough, but it’ll evaporate soon.”
All the more reason to snatch the Tissue-Bond and run. Playing dress-up was fun, but the reality of what they were about to do—and the consequences of failing or getting caught—had begun to set in, and Solara’s heart pounded hard enough to rattle her rib cage.
Renny navigated past a strip of retail stores and dining establishments to the medical center at the far end of the complex. Instead of landing the shuttle near the emergency entrance, he alighted behind a ship twice their size.
“This’ll be easy,” he told her while cutting the engine. “But if anything goes wrong, come straight back here. The shuttle’s the safest place to hide, and you know how to fly it back to the Banshee in case…” They catch me and you have to run.
He didn’t have to say the last part. Solara understood from her time on the streets. As honorable as it sounded to leave no man behind, that was a naive policy that would result in more damage, not less. The Enforcers would arrest them both and try turning them against each other in the interest of a speedy conviction. If the guards nabbed her, she fully expected Renny to save himself and return the medicine to the Banshee. Doran’s life was leaking out of him, and they didn’t have time to be noble.
“Thank you,” she told Renny. “I don’t know why you’re helping us, but I’m glad you’re here. There’s no way I could pull this off on my own.”
He flashed the same genuine smile that had melted her heart the instant they’d met. She wished he really were her uncle; that blood would tie them together no matter how much distance stretched between them. It wasn’t fair that people couldn’t pick their own families.
“It’s not an easy life out here,” he told her. “I think you know that. So when fate places a kindred traveler in your path, you do your best to make the journey last.”
“What’s your story?” she asked. This might be their last chance to talk, and she felt suddenly desperate to know more about him. “How did you end up on the Banshee?”
He shook a chiding finger, as if scolding her for lack of faith. “I’ll tell you this much. I had a home on Earth, with a good job and a woman who loved me more than I deserved. But my condition got in the way. I stole from the wrong people, the mafia, and it wasn’t safe to stay there anymore.” He patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll have to wait till later to hear the rest.”
He opened the shuttle doors, and Solara looped both arms around his neck when he came around to fetch her. As he carried her across the docking lot, she rested her head on his shoulder and grimaced in a show of pain, just in case the guards were watching the security feed. When the med-center’s emergency doors parted, cool air washed over them, thick with the biting scent of antiseptic.
She released an audible groan while Renny rushed to the admissions counter and told the attendant, “It’s my niece. She hurt her ankle at a party.” He drew a breath and went on, each word tumbling out quicker than the last. “I never should’ve let her go, but she promised there wouldn’t be drinking.”
“Heyyyy,” Solara slurred, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It’sss not my fault. They told me it was fruit punch.”
Ignoring her, Renny made pleading eyes at the receptionist, a middle-aged woman wearing a pinched expression that said her shift was nearly over and, along with it, her patience.
“Tell me you have the meds to fix it,” Renny said. “I can’t send her back to my sister like this. I swore not to let—”
“How’d you hurt your ankle?” the woman interrupted, sliding her gaze to Solara’s painted face.
“Turns out,” Solara said, and hiccuped for effect, “I’m a really bad table dancer.”
Renny hung his head. “Your mom’s going to kill me.”
With a barely contained eye roll, the receptionist pushed a data tablet across the desk and nodded toward the area behind them. “Fill this out and wait over there. Someone will call you shortly.”
Renny situated them in the far corner of the waiting room, where Solara drew the gazes of at least two dozen bored patients, gawking at her like they’d never seen a debutante before. She couldn’t blame them. Roles reversed, she probably would’ve stared the hardest. At first the attention made her nervous, but then she heard a familiar name on the news program playing above their heads, and the rest of the lobby ceased to exist.
“Still no word on the whereabouts of Doran Spaulding,” a female journalist said from the ceiling speakers, “the Prodigious Academy alumnus wanted for the same crime that landed his father, president of Spaulding Enterprises, in jail without bond while he awaits trial.”
In unison with Renny, she snapped her gaze to the telescreen, where Doran grinned at them in high definition, standing alongside an older, slightly taller version of himself in a three-piece suit. No wonder Doran couldn’t reach his father—the guy was in lockup.
“According to Solar League officials,” the woman went on, “both father and son orchestrated the theft of a substance known only as Infinium from a heavily guarded government transport. Prosecutors call the evidence damning, but the lead defending attorney continues to deny the charges on behalf of both men, despite the fact that DNA evidence at the scene has linked Doran Spaulding to the crime.”
Infinium? What was that, and why was it so heavily guarded? Solara tried to picture Doran sneaking inside a military vessel and pulling off a heist. There was no way. Maybe he’d done something to accidentally implicate himself.
“The young man is thought to be traveling with an indentured servant, eighteen-year-old Solara Brooks, a convicted felon wanted for questioning in a credit fraud investigation. She can be identified by her permanent tattoos and by the birthmark…”
Solara didn’t wait to see her mug shot appear on the screen. “Get me out of here,” she whispered to Renny, clutching his arm hard enough to make him cringe. For the benefit of everyone watching, she pressed a hand to her lips and moaned, “Oh god. I think I’m gonna be sick.”
He scooped her into his arms and returned to the sour-faced receptionist, who wasted no time ushering them into a private exam room once Solara started making gagging noises. In less than a minute, Solara was sittin
g on a padded table with a waste receptacle balanced on her lap. Renny whispered encouragements and rubbed her back until they were alone. Then he raked a hand through his hair and hissed a curse.
“Let’s not panic,” he said, contradicting himself by turning in a nervous circle. “With all the makeup you’re wearing, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I guarantee she wouldn’t,” Solara muttered. “Go look for the Tissue-Bond. If anyone asks why you’re wandering the halls, tell them I sent you for Fizzy Ale to settle my stomach.”
“Fizzy Ale,” he repeated, nodding.
“Hurry. It won’t take long for them to figure out my ankle isn’t sprained. I’ll stall the exam for as long as I can, but…”
He left before she finished the sentence.
Alone in the sterile room, Solara tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach by reminding herself that Renny was right. Every blemish that made her recognizable, from her birthmark to her tattoos, was hidden beneath a layer of holographic cosmetics. Her fake identity would hold up as long as she didn’t give anyone a reason to question it.
Several minutes later, she heard the click of approaching footsteps and curled into a ball on the exam table, making herself as pitiful as her tight bodice would allow. The door slid open, and a man asked, “Miss Vanderbilt?”
Whimpering, Solara pushed into a sitting position and froze when her gaze landed on the boy in front of her—because with his smooth baby face and waiflike build, nobody would mistake him for a man. As young as he was, she thought he might be an orderly. But then she glanced at the badge affixed to his lab coat, which read DR. DEATH.
That had to be a joke.
“It’s pronounced ‘deeth,’” he said with a sigh, like he made that clarification a thousand times a day. “How are you feeling tonight?” Despite the polite inquiry, the flatness in his tone told her it was just a formality to move things along, clear one room and on to the next. His eyes shifted to a bone scanner mounted on the side wall, and Solara knew she’d have to be creative if she wanted to stall him.
“Much better…now,” she said, grinning and lowering the angle of her chin until she peered coyly at him beneath her lashes. She’d never flirted this way before, but it always worked in the movies.
His businesslike mask vanished, and his mouth opened as if he’d glimpsed an alien and wasn’t sure whether to believe his eyes. Based on his reaction, Solara guessed that most girls found him invisible, and she felt a tug of sympathy for the young doctor. She boldly looked him up and down, from his cropped brown hair to the tips of his sensible shoes, then widened her smile to show that she liked what she’d seen.
“You’re not what I expected,” she told him.
He stammered for a moment and cleared his throat. “Neither are you.”
“But in a good way, right?”
A bloom of color spread over his cheeks, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Of course. You look real nice.”
Real nice? If that was the best he could do, it was no wonder he couldn’t get a date.
“You think?” she asked, feigning shyness while leaning down to display a deep line of cleavage. As intended, the movement didn’t escape his notice. His eyes locked on her curves and glazed over while his face went dopey. But just when she thought she had him well and truly hooked, his brows lowered and his head tipped to the side.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at her throat while he took a step closer. “Is it a birthmark? Or a scar, maybe?”
Solara touched the base of her neck and felt something sticky. When she pulled her hand away, her fingertips were covered in an oily peach goo. She frowned at the substance before realizing what had happened. The ninety-proof Crystalline she’d dribbled all over herself must’ve slowly eaten away at her makeup. She jerked her gaze to her knuckles, where black ink peeked out between gaps in the concealer.
That didn’t escape the doctor’s notice, either.
She hid both hands behind her back, but it was too late. She could see the questions forming in his mind as his gaze sharpened, refocusing on her throat. There was only one reason for a girl to cover her knuckles with cosmetics, and anyone smart enough to graduate from medical school would figure it out. And unless he lived in a cave, he’d recognize her birthmark, too.
The door slid open and Renny stood on the other side, assessing the mood with a quick glance. Instead of joining them, he patted his breast pocket and thumbed over one shoulder. “I’m stepping outside for a smoke. Hang in there, sweetie. I’ll be back before you can blink.”
Solara exhaled in relief. That was their signal—a message that he’d stolen the Tissue-Bond and would wait for her in the shuttle. Now all she had to do was create a believable excuse to follow him.
“Okay,” she said. “But I wish you’d quit. Those things will kill you.”
“So will drunken table dancing,” he replied with a wink, and strode away.
The young doctor didn’t laugh. He watched Renny disappear into the lobby before turning back to Solara with his brow creased in deep concentration. She didn’t need X-ray vision to see the puzzle pieces clicking inside his head. It was time to get out of here.
Rotating her ankle, she said, “The gel pack must have helped, because I feel a little better.” She stood from the table and pretended to test her weight, limping when her bare left foot touched the floor. “Where’s the bathroom?”
The young man’s eyes widened by a fraction, and there it was—the unmistakable spark of realization that said he’d finally made the connection. He knew who she was.
“Let me find you a wheelchair,” he told her, backing toward the exit. “Stay put.”
Then he darted out and shut the door behind him.
Solara ran after him, but when she tapped the exit panel, the door refused to open. She grabbed the manual lever and tried hauling it aside, but no matter how hard she tugged, the door wouldn’t budge. He’d locked her in.
The bottom fell out of her stomach.
Once he alerted security, the complex would go on lockdown. If she didn’t make it to the docking lot soon, Renny would have no choice but to leave her behind. Which meant her life was as good as over.
Survival instincts kicked in, and she spun a rotation to check for windows or an air duct wide enough to crawl through. There was nothing, not even a heat register. Whirling back to face the door, she studied the exit panel—a thin, steely plate designed to respond to the touch. If she could pry the panel free, she might be able to override the lock.
She plucked a hairpin from her braids and wedged one narrow point beneath the panel’s lip, working it back and forth until it slipped halfway underneath. Then, using a tongue depressor as leverage, she widened the gap between the panel and the wall until there was enough room to wriggle her fingers inside. With a gentle force, she pulled the plate free, making sure to leave plenty of slack for the wires connected to the other side.
Sweat slicked her hands, and she wiped them on her gown without a care for how much it cost. Right now nothing was worth more than her freedom. Squinting, she studied the tangle of electrical tubing and immediately picked out the grounders and hot wires, the ones to leave alone. Of the remaining cables, she began systematically pulling and reattaching them until she found the emergency override. The door slid open, and she didn’t waste another second inside that room.
Hitching up her dress, she sprinted down the hall and into the lobby, rudely knocking aside anyone in her path. She never looked back, focusing only on the double doors leading to the docking lot. She was close enough to smell shuttle exhaust when she heard shouts of “Stop!” and “Seal the exit!” behind her. With only a few yards to go, she pumped her legs harder and faster, head down and barreling through the doors just as they began to close.
She made it into the lot, but the instant her feet met concrete, an invisible force jerked her backward, and she slammed into the sealed fiberglass doors. Whipping her head around, she discovered t
hat half her skirts were trapped on the other side. She tugged the fabric in vain while her heart pounded a frantic staccato. A glance through the glass showed two security officers pointing at her and shouting orders at the receptionist. When her gown refused to tear, Solara reached a trembling hand behind her and jerked down the bodice zipper. She pushed the dress over her hips and stepped free, then ran like hell toward the shuttle, wearing nothing but a pair of government-issue underpants and the long strips of linen she’d used to support her breasts.
Renny must have seen her coming, because he’d already fired up the shuttle and opened the rear hatch by the time she reached him. She sailed inside headfirst, screaming for him to “Go, go, go!” and the craft lifted off the ground before the door had even shut. She sealed the hatch and scrambled on her hands and knees toward the cockpit, then strapped in beside him.
“You forgot your dress,” Renny said, staring straight ahead while he white-knuckled the control wheel and jettisoned toward the security checkpoint.
“Never let anyone tell you,” she panted, “that I don’t know how to make an exit.”
He laughed for an instant before his features hardened. When Solara followed the direction of his gaze, she understood why. Red alarms flashed all around the guard station while security officers scrambled like ants behind the wraparound glass. A billboard message flashed NO EXIT, and the line of shuttlecraft waiting to leave the complex jerked to a stop, nearly causing a pileup.
“Renny…” she said, then went mute.
Instead of slowing down, he pushed the accelerators to the limit, sending Solara jerking back in her seat. As they zoomed toward a single shuttle halfway through the exit point, she began to understand Renny’s intentions. He was going to try to follow the craft out before the shield closed behind it. But if the shield caught their back end, the energy surge would destroy their circuitry, leaving them drifting right outside the satellite. They’d be easy pickings for the Enforcers, assuming the surge didn’t electrocute them first.