Doran pushed into a sitting position, though half his muscles ached in protest. “We’re not drunk,” he whispered in a dry throat. Damn, he was thirsty. He glanced beside him and found Solara lying next to the barn wall, massaging her forehead with one hand, and a strip of white gauze covering the wrist below it.
At the sight of that bandage, all his memories from last night came rushing back in a sucker punch to the face. He didn’t have to look at his wrist to know it was covered, too. And the skin there wasn’t numb anymore. In fact, it burned like hellfire.
“Oh no,” he said. “What did we do?”
It was a hypothetical question. He recalled every word, every giggle, every clumsy grope, and, most of all, the ink-stained needle that ensured he would never, ever, forget any of it. Doran had wanted a souvenir, and he’d gotten one—in the shape of four antique pirate swords curving into a figure eight.
The symbol for the Brethren of Outcasts.
Have fun explaining that to the shareholders, he thought.
Solara slung an arm over her eyes. “Please tell me that was a dream. Please tell me we weren’t inked by a retired accountant who took up body art last month.” Then she peeked beneath her bandage and whimpered. “Nope. Not a dream.”
“I’d ask what you’ve been up to,” Cassia said, “but I can already tell.” Smiling, she leaned down to inspect Solara’s neck. “You two are animals!”
Kane laughed and elbowed her. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
Doran’s eyes locked with Solara’s before he glanced at her throat and felt all the blood drain from his face. Her skin was covered in hickeys. She was going to kill him once she looked in the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but then he remembered how the mushroom had rewired his brain and given him some kind of eargasm, and the whole thing was so crazy that he couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling up. “I haven’t,” he choked out between chortles, “given anyone a hickey since seventh grade.”
Her face turned so red it almost matched her neck. “You owe me a visit to the flesh forger,” she said, standing up. “And this”—she pointed back and forth between them—“will never happen again.”
She stormed away, and Cassia followed, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.
Doran was still laughing, though he knew that wouldn’t last long. The tension in his stomach warned that he’d soon be kneeling in front of the merciless toilet gods.
Kane gave a sympathetic wince and offered his hand. “I’ve heard that before. Last year after the hellberry festival.”
“She’ll get over it,” Doran said, accepting the help. “Eventually.”
Kane hauled him up with a laugh. “That’s what I thought, too.” He clapped Doran on the shoulder and said, “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
The hickeys faded after a week, but the crew’s nightly wisecracks in the galley were much like the scent of burnt porridge—never ending.
“No scarf tonight?” the captain asked, pointing at Solara’s neck. “I guess you finally beat that cold virus.”
“I don’t believe she had a cold,” Renny said thoughtfully. “I’ll bet it was the Hoover flu. You know, named after the old vacuum cleaners on Earth?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that disease,” Cassia chimed in. “Doesn’t it cause a rash that looks like suction marks? Highly contagious when mixed with cute guys and Crystalline?”
Renny nodded. “That’s the one. Nasty business, the Hoover flu. It can lead to a serious fever.”
Solara hid her annoyance behind a heaping bite of beans, but if the ribbing didn’t let up soon, she might consider staging a mutiny with her newly recovered stunner. A girl could only take so much.
The captain chuckled to himself and nodded at Doran. “Are you up to reporting to the bridge after supper? Or do you feel a fever coming on?”
If the jokes bothered Doran, he didn’t let it show. Solara glanced up and caught him watching her from above the rim of his cup, his lips curved in the same unsettling smile he’d worn since their night together on Cargill. There was something different in the way he looked at her now, as if he’d seen beneath her skin and knew all her secrets. It never failed to knock her sideways. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d opened her mouth to speak and had drawn a blank, or forgotten why she’d walked into the room. In fact, she couldn’t quite recall why she’d felt so annoyed a moment ago.…
“I have been running hot lately,” Doran said, never taking his eyes off her. “But who says I want the cure?”
The whole table erupted in laughter and wolf whistles.
Oh, yes. That was why she’d felt annoyed.
Solara drew a breath and geared up for a snarky comeback, but once again, he’d sent her world tumbling off its axis. Damn him.
“Report to the bridge anyway,” the captain said. “We need to narrow down your destination so I’m not flying all over hell’s half acre once we reach that nameless planet of yours.”
For the first time that night, Doran’s grin faltered. It seemed that the closer they traveled to the fringe, the less he wanted to talk about his father’s errand. Solara couldn’t blame him. His whole future depended on finding a substance he’d never seen on a planet he’d never visited…and maybe thwarting a government conspiracy to boot. She was secondhand nervous just thinking about it.
“I still don’t know what I’m looking for,” he admitted. “But since there’s no real settlement there, a quick scan for electronics should pinpoint—”
The galley lights flickered and died, followed by an abrupt silence that told Solara the auxiliary engines had shut down. Before she could blink, her plate clattered and she bounced one time in her seat. It felt as if the Banshee had hit a speed bump. The disturbance lasted only a second, but no lights returned other than the emergency strips glowing along the floor.
The captain scooped Acorn out of his pocket and handed her to Cassia. “Cage her,” he said. “But first wrap her in one of my shirts so she has my scent.”
Cassia recoiled, stretching out both arms like she was holding a live grenade. “Gross, she licked me. Now I’m covered in her germs.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” the captain scolded.
“She doesn’t speak English.”
“But she can sense your feelings,” he hissed. “Whether you like it or not, that creature is bonded to us. We’re the only—”
“Family she’s got,” Cassia finished on a sigh. “I know, I know.”
After she strode away, the captain gathered his crutch and asked Solara to inspect the engine room while he returned to the bridge to check the equipment readings. Doran volunteered to go with her, and together they followed the dim arrows down the stairs. His fingers kept curling around her waist, and she shot him a questioning look in the darkness.
“In case we hit more turbulence,” he explained.
“You think you’ll catch me?”
“Maybe. Or at least break your fall.”
She removed his hand, holding on a few beats longer than necessary because her mind and body weren’t on speaking terms. The truth was she craved his touch—so much that she sought it in her sleep. And that scared her. Because one day soon, she would be alone on Vega while he warmed someone else’s bed.
“I don’t want you to break my fall,” she said, and continued ahead of him.
Just as she reached the auxiliary engine room door, the captain’s voice crackled over the com system in a broken command. “Don’t…inspection…geomagnetic storm…electrical systems…have to…planet-side until it passes.”
The message was clear enough. They returned upstairs to strap in for a bumpy landing, then reconvened in the galley after touchdown.
“Where are we?” Kane asked, wiping spilled beans off the table.
Cassia took the rag from him and resumed cleaning the mess, her prayer necklace bobbing with each movement. “Is it breathable outside? Or will we need the suits?”
; “No suits,” Captain Rossi said. “We’re on New Haven.”
Solara felt her brows jump. “But that means we’re—”
“In the outer realm,” he finished. “And no, the Enforcers can’t touch us here. But don’t get too excited. There’s a reason they don’t patrol these colonies.”
Solara didn’t argue, but that reason depended on who you asked. Politicians claimed the fringe was a drain on public resources, that the outer settlements didn’t generate enough revenue to merit the protection of the police force. Others implied that the colonists had devolved into animals, and it wasn’t safe to patrol there. But according to stories she’d heard, the real reason the Enforcers stayed away was because the fringe settlers refused to be controlled.
She liked that last reason the best, so that was what she chose to believe.
“I picked up a distress call from the northern settlement,” Captain Rossi said. “Figured I’d check it out.” He nodded at Solara. “Why don’t you tag along and get a feel for this new life of yours.”
Something in his tone put her on edge, but she nodded. She wanted to see how a fringe town operated.
“I’m coming, too,” Doran said. He settled a hand on her shoulder, which she promptly shrugged off.
“Suit yourself,” the captain told him. “But the shuttle’s a two-seater, so you’ll have to volunteer your lap.” The captain hobbled toward his chamber and called over one shoulder, “If you’ve got any weapons on board, bring ’em—the bigger, the better.”
Doran cut his eyes at her. “That doesn’t bode well.”
She agreed but didn’t say so. Instead, she retrieved her handheld stunner and told herself the captain was overreacting.
An hour later, she found out he wasn’t.
“My god,” Doran breathed, peering out the shuttle window at the decimated landscape below. His arms tightened around her waist, either as a protective gesture or from the shock; she couldn’t tell which. “What happened here?”
Solara shifted on his lap and leaned closer to inspect the town, or what was left of it. She’d never seen destruction like this. Wood buildings were flattened, their timbers pounded to the dirt in splintered fragments. None of the ruins were charred by fire, and she didn’t see any evidence of a flood. It looked as if a giant boot had simply descended from the heavens and stomped the settlement into the ground. Stranger still, the surrounding fields of leafy-green crops were untouched, including a reaping machine half covered in vines.
“A weapon, maybe?” she said.
The captain shook his head and steered the shuttle east. “A lightning spout.”
“A what?”
“It’s a side effect of sloppy terraforming. When the atmosphere’s not stable, it causes weird storms. Like twisters that build up pressure and strike in a single bolt. See how the damage is contained?”
She nodded.
“That’s how you can tell.” He grumbled to himself and said, “The settlement brokers colonize these terraforms too soon. They lure folks out to the fringe with the promise of free acreage, then leave ’em stranded here for life…however long that lasts.”
“Why don’t the settlers go back?” Doran asked.
“With what money?” the captain said. “They sell everything they own for the broker’s fee and a one-way ticket to the promised land. Once they get here, they spend whatever’s left on seed, equipment, and the fuel to operate it. That doesn’t leave much for transport fare.”
“What about fuel?” Doran asked. “If you wanted to fill your tank here, how much would it cost?”
The captain shook his head. “Only a fool would do that.”
“Humor me. How much per unit?”
“Not sure,” Rossi said, lifting a shoulder. “At least a hundred credits, maybe more.”
Doran’s jaw dropped. “But it was only two credits on Obsidian.”
“You’re not on Obsidian anymore.”
“That’s price gouging,” Doran said. “How do the settlers run their equipment?”
Solara recalled the mechanical reaper she’d seen abandoned in the field. “I guess they don’t,” she said, and her mind wandered to Vega. How long would they need a mechanic if they couldn’t afford to use their machinery?
“Anyway,” the captain went on. “Assuming the colonists hitched a ride back to Earth, they’d have nowhere to live, except crammed into a one-bedroom flat with a half dozen other families. That’s why they left in the first place.”
“And they can’t make a life anywhere else,” Solara said. “Not without money or a prearranged job.” A chill gripped her stomach. Even if she found work in the tourist ring, that would put her within reach of the Enforcers and another felony charge. When faced with the choice between Vega and a prison settlement, she’d have to take her chances in the fringe. She told herself it would be okay, that she’d prepared for this.
It felt like a lie.
“So they stay,” the captain said.
“And make the best of it,” she finished. “Like I will.”
Doran held her close with one hand while using the other to tug on his earlobe, something he only did after an argument or when he had to apologize to her. She wondered if he was worried about sharing her fate, assuming he couldn’t clear the charges against him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Your dad’s probably got loads of money stashed away. I’m sure you won’t end up crashing on my sofa.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face as if he hadn’t listened to a word she’d said, and then he refocused on the landscape. “If someone sent a distress call, there were survivors. Where’s the nearest town? Maybe they went there.”
“About a four-day walk south of where we landed the Banshee,” the captain said. “But their wounded wouldn’t be able to make the journey. They probably built a temporary camp.” He pointed to a thin finger of smoke curling up from a vacant stretch of landscape with no structures or people in sight. “Like that one.”
The captain landed the shuttle on a hilltop about twenty yards away, but instead of opening the side hatches, he raised an antique pistol for show, the kind that fired metal slugs instead of energy pulses.
“Ever shoot one of these?” he asked. When they shook their heads, he handed them each a sheathed dagger. “Then tuck this in your belt. And don’t be afraid to use it.”
“I thought we were here to help,” Doran said.
The captain strapped a pistol across his chest. “You’ve never tried to save a drowning man, have you?”
“No,” Doran said, wrinkling his forehead. “What’s that got to do with—”
“He panics,” the captain interrupted. “Grabs onto you and pushes you under. He can’t help it. He’ll do anything for one more breath.” Rossi pointed a second pistol at them before adding it to his holster. “Desperate people kill to survive. I’ll do what I can for these settlers, but not at the expense of losing one of my own. Are we clear?”
They nodded.
“Good,” he said, unlocking the hatch. “Now, watch each other’s backs.”
The noise of the shuttle had drawn a dozen survivors from their hiding places. The settlers blinked at them with bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge from their skulls. So much filth covered their faces and matted their hair that Solara couldn’t tell the men from the women, or even their ages. Their clothes hung in tatters from sharp, thin shoulders, and bony ankles jutted from torn trouser hems.
Whatever they’d been eating, there wasn’t enough of it.
“Picked up your distress beacon,” the captain said, making sure to open his jacket and display both pistols. “Might be able to transport your injured. How many are there?”
One person stepped forward and answered in a man’s deep timbre. “None. At least, not anymore. The last one bled out a few days ago.”
“Survivors?”
“What you see here.” The man hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Plus fifty more in the dugouts.”
N
ow that Solara paid attention, she noticed a few shelters excavated from the hillside behind the group, basically caves made of dirt. A small fire crackled in the center of camp, smoking a few strips of meat into jerky. Sudden movement caught her eye, and she spotted a mud-streaked child poking his head out of his cave to study her. The whites of his eyes grew when they met hers, but someone quickly snatched him out of view.
“If you want transport to the next settlement,” Captain Rossi said, “we can probably arrange it.”
“Thank you, friend,” the man replied with a coolness that negated his words. “But we’ll stay and rebuild. There’s only a month till harvest, and the crop looks good this year. It’ll get us through the winter.”
“What will you eat in the meantime?” Rossi asked. “I don’t see any livestock.”
The man indicated the long red strips dangling over the fire. “We just butchered our last steer. The meat’s well preserved.”
“Will it be enough?”
One bony shoulder lifted in a shrug. “If not, the slave traders will come around soon. They always do. Our weakest will fetch a bushel of grain per head.”
“You would sell your own people?” the captain asked, not sounding surprised.
“Better a life of servitude than death by starvation.” A spark of inspiration lit the man’s eyes, and he added, “We have widows. And orphan girls. They’d make excellent traveling companions for your crew. If you’re willing to trade—”
“I don’t deal in flesh.”
The man looked taken aback, as if insulted by the quick dismissal. He tipped his dirty head and studied each of them in a way that raised the hairs at the back of Solara’s neck. Then his gaze returned to the captain’s pistols, and he asked, “How many are in your crew?”
Solara’s pulse throbbed with fear because she knew what the man was thinking. Slave traders would pay a lot more than one bushel of grain for her, and an even higher price for a strong boy like Doran. She sensed the man sizing them up, calculating how many shots the captain could fire before he succumbed to an attack. She rested a hand on her knife hilt, but even armed, they were no match for a group of sixty.