Starflight (Starflight, #1)(13)

“You took my laser blade again,” the girl shouted. “My only day for a shower, and now I can’t shave!”

“I didn’t touch your blade.”

“Really?” The girl stood on tiptoe and scrutinized his jaw. “Then where’s the dandelion fuzz that usually grows on your chin?”

Kane sighed. “Fine. I used it yesterday.”

“I knew it!”

“But I put it back in your shower caddy.” Kane gripped his hips. “I didn’t bother asking, because I knew you’d never let me have it.”

The girl curled one hand into a fist and shook it menacingly. “I’ll let you have it.”

“Check your caddy, you lunatic!”

“I told you, it’s not there! The only other person—”

Suddenly the argument came to a halt and all eyes shifted to Lawrence, who blushed and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Renny,” the girl said. “Turn out your pockets.”

The first mate dug into his pockets and emptied two handfuls of odds and ends onto the table—casino chips, a wristwatch, mismatched earrings, key fobs, dice, folded pieces of paper, and a pink laser blade.

He offered a sheepish grin. “Sorry. You know I can’t help it.”

The girl stomped forward and snatched her blade off the table. Then she flung her wet dreadlocks behind her and set off down the stairs.

“Hey,” Kane called after her. “You owe me an apology!” When she didn’t respond, he jutted his chin at the pile of knickknacks on the table. “Is that my watch?”

“I don’t know.” Renny handed it over. “Probably.”

Kane raised the item for show and told Solara, “There’s a lockbox in your quarters. I suggest you use it, because Renny’s got sticky fingers.” He pointed down the stairs. “And that delightful girl is Cassia, the other ship hand.”

“Is she your sister?” Solara asked.

He barked a laugh. “God, no. I’d hang myself.”

Renny lifted an object from the table and inspected it beneath the light. Inky black and flawlessly round, it might resemble a marble to someone who hadn’t trained for several years as a mechanic. But Solara knew what it was.

“Is that the Banshee’s tracker?” she asked. “Removed from its port?”

Renny and Kane shared a knowing look before the first mate tucked the item back inside his pocket. “Yes,” he said. “It’s broken.”

Solara didn’t believe him. Trackers withstood even the worst collisions, and it was illegal to remove one from its designated port. The only reason to do that was if someone didn’t want to be found. Not that she was complaining. She didn’t want to be found, either. But regardless, she resolved to bolt her bedroom door that night.

Clearly she wasn’t the only one with secrets.





Dinner consisted of dried beans stewed in rehydrated tomatoes. Solara could tell the food was reconstituted because of the rare times when farmers had donated fresh, albeit half-rotted, produce to the diocese. Even bruised and overripe, tomatoes in their natural state were bursting with a sweetness and tang that the dehydrating process couldn’t capture. Still, she ate her supper without complaining. It was better than soy-meal, a cheap oat hybrid that tasted like dishwater.

The captain frowned at the untouched bowl of beans next to hers. “Where’s your indenture? Everyone eats—”

“Together,” she finished, avoiding his black gaze. She’d discerned that his eyes were real, but looking into them still made her uneasy. “I told him.”

Doran joined them soon afterward, announcing his presence by dropping a sack of fuel chips on the floor. “It’s all there,” he said, and blew out a breath. “Ten thousand. I counted them myself.”

“Counted them?” the captain asked. “Why didn’t you use the machine?”

Doran froze. “What machine?”

“The trading scale,” Kane supplied from the far end of the bench. “We’d never get anything done if we hand-counted chips. I told Lara about it.”

While Doran glared at her, Solara explained, “But they’re not always calibrated just right. I wanted to make sure the captain has his due.”

With a disbelieving grunt, Doran took his seat. He glanced at his beans and then peered around the table as if looking for something. “Where’s the main course?”

“This is it,” she said.

“But there’s no meat.”

Solara turned to face him, stunned by the sense of entitlement that transcended his memory loss. It must be nice to afford so much animal protein that he expected to have it served at every supper. “If it’s not to your liking,” she told him, “the rest of us can divide your share.”

Clearly he was hungry, because he curled a protective arm around his bowl.

“Now that we’re all here, we can get started,” the captain said. “Whose turn is it?”

“For what?” Doran asked.

“To ask ‘would you rather,’” Cassia said, blotting her lips with a cloth napkin. “We play every night.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist and turned to Kane. “Would you rather know the date of your death or the cause of it?”