Starflight (Starflight, #1)(2)
It was clear he recognized her, too, because the instant their eyes met, he stopped and laughed. “Rattail,” he called. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Reflexively, Solara fingered the squiggly birthmark at the base of her throat, the one Doran had once said reminded him of a rodent’s tail. That’d been four years ago, and she still hadn’t managed to shake the nickname.
“You missed graduation,” he said, though she didn’t know why he cared. “I guess all that free education didn’t mean much if you couldn’t be bothered to take your diploma.”
Solara indulged in a small grin, relieved that he hadn’t heard the news. The real reason she’d missed graduation was because the academy had dropped her like a flaming brick the instant they learned about her felony conviction. “I tested out early,” she said, which technically wasn’t a lie. “With a near-perfect score.”
He didn’t seem to like that. Jutting his chin at the indenture band around her wrist, he asked, “Selling yourself for a glimpse of the Obsidian Beaches? Can’t say I blame you. It’s the only way you’ll ever see them.”
She opened her mouth to fire a witty comeback, but nothing came. Her best lines always arrived an hour too late. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m headed to the end of the line.”
“The outer realm?” Doran drew back. “Why would you want to go there?”
“For a job,” she told him. “The offer came last week.”
In the lawless outer realm, mechanics like Solara were hard to come by. No one would care about the tattoos across her knuckles or the grease beneath her fingernails. She’d be revered as a goddess because settlers on the fringe planets appreciated skill over beauty. That was where she belonged, far from Houston’s overcrowded high-rise slums and the sweatshops that paid a few measly credits to those with the connections to get inside. She was going west, all the way to the edge of the charted territories, to a new terraform called Vega. Her benefits package included a whole acre of land, all to herself. She couldn’t wait to work that soil between her fingers and know that she owned it. Freedom, wealth, and security were right there, waiting for her.
All she needed was a ticket.
“But you can’t afford the fare,” Doran said, mostly talking to himself. “And the next trip to the outer realm isn’t for a year.”
“Two months,” she corrected.
“No, a year.” He smoothed a perfectly manicured hand over his dark hair, then took the opportunity to study his reflection in the nearby ticketing screen. “They’re scaling back because there’s no demand to visit the fringe planets. Only criminals end up there.” Raking his gaze over her, he added, “And vagrants.”
All the blood drained from Solara’s head.
A year?
Where would she live? How would she support herself? The nuns had practically danced a jig when she’d left because it freed up a bed for one of the teens sleeping on the cafeteria floor. Each day more abandoned kids appeared at the front gate, their parents having fled the scene in the world’s saddest game of hide-and-seek. The group home couldn’t afford to keep anyone past graduation. No exceptions. Even Sister Agnes, who’d been like a mother to Solara, had pressed a handheld stunner into her palm and shoved her out the gate. The fringe is a dangerous place, Agnes had said. Keep this in your pocket. Then she’d told Solara to go in peace and serve the Lord.
It was clear she wasn’t meant to return.
Doran brought her back to present company by tapping his chin and peering at her with new interest. “My usual valet is too sick to travel,” he said. “I can see that all the proper servants are taken, but you might do.” His upper lip curled in a way that made Solara want to hide her face. “I’d have to let you in my suite, but I guess I can live with that.”
Before Solara could respond, Doran’s girlfriend made a noise of disgust and whined, “Come on, Dory. Not that one. She’s so…dirty.”
Solara’s cheeks blazed. She’d taken great care to scrub her face at the public bathhouse that morning, even paying extra to have her hair washed and plaited in the latest style. “She is standing right here. And I’m not dirty.”
Doran snapped his gaze to hers, his black brows forming a slash above blue eyes cold enough to frost the fiery moons of Volcanus. “Let’s get something straight, Rattail. If I agree to finance your passage, the only words that will leave your mouth for the next five months are Yes, Mr. Spaulding. If you disappoint me in any way—if my every wish is not brought to fruition—I’ll drop your carcass at the first outpost. Do you understand?”
Solara held her breath while a furious pulse pounded in her ears. Five months as Doran’s slave or a year on the streets. Unpleasant as it was, the decision made itself.
“Yes,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, Mr. Spaulding.”
“That’s better. See?” he said to his girlfriend. “She can be trained.” He pointed at Solara’s wrist. “Where’s the matching band?”
“You buy it from the machine,” Solara told him, nodding at the kiosk beside her.
Once Doran transferred the credits to pay her fare, the gate opened with a beep and an M-emblazoned bracelet dropped into the collection tray. He slapped the band around his wrist, linking them as master and servant.