Stars Above (The Lunar Chronicles #4.5)(29)

A tiny spaceship. A 214 Rampion, to be exact.

His mother, as expected, had hated the tie tack when she’d noticed it for the first time nearly two weeks later. “Sweetheart,” she’d said in that sweet tone that just bordered on condescending, “they have a whole display of spaceship accessories at Tiff’s. Why don’t we go down there after school and you can pick out something nice? Maybe a racer, or a fleet ship, or one of those vintage ones you used to like? Remember all those posters you had on your walls when you were little?”

“I like the Rampions, Mom.”

She’d grimaced. Literally grimaced. “What under the stars is a Rampion ship, anyway?”

“Cargo ship,” his father had jumped in. “Mostly military, aren’t they, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A cargo ship!” Exasperated, his mom had set her hands on her hips. “Why would you want a tie tack of a cargo ship, of all things?”

“I don’t know,” he’d said, shrugging. “I just like them.”

And he did. A Rampion had the bulk of a whale but the sleekness of a shark, and it appealed to him. Also, there was something nice about a ship that was purely utilitarian. Not flashy, not overdone, not luxurious. Not like every single thing his parents had ever purchased.

It was just … useful.

“Presentable?” he said, scruffing Boots on the back of her neck. The cat ducked her head in a way that was almost realistic and purred louder.

Grabbing the gray uniform blazer off the door handle, he headed downstairs. His parents were both at the breakfast table (as opposed to the formal dining room table in the next room), all eyes glued to their portscreens, while Janette, one of the maids, refilled their coffee mugs and added two sugars to his mom’s.

“Good morning, young captain,” Janette said, pulling his chair out from the table.

“Don’t call him that,” said Carswell’s father without looking up. “You can call him ‘captain’ after he earns it.”

Janette only winked at Carswell while she took the blazer from him and hung it on the back of his chair.

Carswell smiled back and sat down. “Morning, Janette.”

“I’ll bring your pancakes right out.” She finished with a silently mouthed captain and another wink before drifting toward the kitchen.

Without bothering to look up at his otherwise-engaged parents, Carswell pulled his book bag toward him on the floor and removed his own portscreen. Just as he was turning it on, though, his father cleared his throat.

Loudly.

Intimidatingly.

Carswell glanced up through his eyelashes. He probably should have noticed an extra layer of frost sitting over them this morning, but really, who could tell anymore?

“Would you like a glass of water, sir?”

As a response, his dad tossed his portscreen onto the table. His coffee cup rattled.

“The school forwarded your status reports this morning,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect before adding, “They are not up to standards.”

Not up to standards.

If Carswell had a univ for every time he’d heard something wasn’t up to standards, his bank account would be well into “beginning investor” status by now.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I’m sure I almost tried this time.”

“Don’t be smart with your father,” said his mom in a rather disinterested tone, before taking a sip of her coffee.

“Math, Carswell. You’re failing math. How do you expect to be a pilot if you can’t read charts and diagrams and—”

“I don’t want to be a pilot,” he said. “I want to be a captain.”

“Becoming a captain,” his dad growled, “starts with becoming a great pilot.”

Carswell barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d heard that line a time or two, also.

A warm body bumped into his leg and Carswell glanced down to see that Boots had followed him and was now nudging his calf with the side of her face. He was just reaching down to pet her when his dad snapped, “Boots, go outside!”

The cat instantly stopped purring and cuddling against Carswell’s leg, turned, and traipsed toward the kitchen—the fastest route to their backyard.

Carswell scowled as he watched the cat go, its tail sticking cheerfully straight up. He liked Boots a lot—sometimes even felt he might love her, as one does any pet they grew up with—but then he would be reminded that she wasn’t a pet at all. She was a robot, programmed to follow directions just like any android. He’d been asking for a real cat since he was about four, but his parents just laughed at the idea, listing all the reasons Boots was superior. She would never get old or die. She didn’t shed on their nice furniture or climb their fancy curtains or require a litter box. She would only bring them half-devoured mice if they changed her settings to do so.

His parents, Carswell had learned at a very young age, liked things that did what they were told, when they were told. And that didn’t include headstrong felines.

Or, as it turned out, thirteen-year-old boys.

“You need to start taking this seriously,” his dad was saying, ripping him from his thoughts as the cat-door swung closed behind Boots. “You’ll never be accepted into Andromeda at this rate.”