Starflight (Starflight, #1)(12)
Kane pointed at the murals. “It’s the Black Forest,” he said. “Or at least how the captain remembered it from when he was a boy. He says it’s mostly gone now.” Kane shrugged. “I didn’t grow up on Earth, so I wouldn’t know. Anyway, this is where we spend most of our time.”
“I can see why. It’s an amazing room.”
Doran shushed them from his spot on the floor. “Three thousand, two hundred and fifty-seven,” he said, and pushed another coin into the massive pile he’d built. He glanced up and greeted Solara with narrowed eyes. “I unpacked your things, but I still haven’t found our contract.”
“It’ll turn up,” she promised. “How’s your head?”
He didn’t seem to appreciate the change in topic but grumbled, “Fine. The tonic is still working.”
“You shouldn’t sleep in long stretches tonight, just in case you have a concussion.”
At the warning, he rubbed a nervous hand over his scalp.
“I’ll wake you,” she said. “Every hour, on the hour.”
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me, it’s the least I can do.”
When she left to resume the tour, she heard a coin scrape across the metal floor, followed by Doran’s count of “Three thousand, two hundred and…and…”
“Fifty-eight,” Kane supplied. “But why aren’t you—”
“No,” Solara interrupted before he could suggest that Doran use the currency scale. “I thought it was twenty-eight,” she lied. “Make sure you get it right. The captain won’t appreciate us shorting him.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not starting over,” Doran snapped.
“Excuse me?” she said. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
Doran mumbled a word that would make an escort blush, followed by “One”—scrape—“two”—scrape—“three…”
This trip was going to be fun.
“The ship’s quarters are down here,” Kane said. “We all double up, even the captain and the first mate.” He made an apologetic face and opened the last door in the hallway. “This is the only room we have left.”
At first, Solara didn’t see the problem. The space was clean and bright with stark-white walls and a double bed situated in the corner—lavish when compared to her narrow cot at the group home.
Kane scratched the back of his neck and took a sudden interest in his shoes. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with your servant.…”
“Oh.” Now she understood. “Not the kind you’re thinking of.” She’d rather sleep with the crusty old captain than share a bed with Doran. “It’s not a problem. He can take the floor.”
Satisfied, Kane turned back down the hallway and climbed the steps to the bridge at the top level. This area was narrower than down below, its ceiling tapered to a point so the only place she could stand without hunching over was in the middle of the room. To the left, a tall brown-haired man with glasses teetering on the tip of his nose was bent over a metal table that had been fused to the wall. About thirty years old, he appeared to be studying solar charts.
He met her gaze and grinned—a real smile that reflected in his eyes. It’d been so long since Solara had seen a gleam of genuine kindness that her heart melted, and she liked him at once.
“This is Lawrence,” Kane said, lifting a hand toward the man. “Our first mate.”
“Call me Renny,” the man told her. He pointed at his charts. “I was just plotting a course to the Obsidian Beaches. The captain said your final destination is the fringe, but he didn’t specify where.”
“Vega,” she said, and leaned in to look at his charts. She recognized the Solar Territories from interstellar geography class. The Milky Way was divided like a dartboard into four sectors with Earth as the bull’s-eye and five rings moving out from it. The tourist rings were the closest, then came the colony planets, ore mines, and prison settlements, in that order. The Solar League headquarters were on Earth, along with most of the galaxy’s industry and wealth, so the farther away you traveled, the more rustic the surroundings. The fifth ring was the fringe, or the outer realm, which the government hadn’t annexed yet. She tapped a spot on the chart and told him, “Vega’s in the same sector as Obsidian, but a few rungs out.”
“Good. That shouldn’t be too—”
“Kane!” interrupted a shrill feminine voice that carried up the stairs so loudly it rattled a loose bolt in the floor. “You scum-eating son of a crotch smuggler!” Footsteps clattered up the metal planks, but Kane didn’t seem concerned. He crossed one foot over the other and studied his fingernails. “I’ll have your guts for bootlaces!”
“Go ahead!” he shouted. “But you’ll have to reach up my ass to get them!”
Solara retreated a pace until her back met the wall. She braced herself, waiting for the owner of that enormous voice to appear, but a tiny young woman stepped onto the bridge, wearing a bathrobe that dragged on the ground. No taller than Kane’s shoulder, the girl craned her neck to glower at him. Her tawny complexion and long blond dreadlocks were nearly identical to his, but dripping water onto the floor. Solara wondered if the two were siblings.