Starflight (Starflight, #1)(38)
“Done,” he said. “You can pay inside, second room on the right. I’ll deliver the part to your pilot.” With the press of a button, he opened the door to the air-lock chamber, a small holding cell that regulated pressurization. But when he tried opening the next door, the one leading into the ship, it wouldn’t budge. “Damn thing’s stuck again,” he muttered.
“It’s probably your hatch sensor,” Solara guessed. She pointed through the window to the control room, where another guard was frowning at the equipment panel. “Ask your friend if the hangar lights are blinking.”
The bald man cast her a skeptical glance, but he did as she asked. A moment later, he touched his earpiece and nodded. “He says it’s all lit up.”
“Then your sensor needs cleaning,” she told him. “It’s an easy fix.”
The man scoffed at her, nodding across the hangar at the enormous hatch while thumbing behind him. “What does the hatch sensor have to do with this air-lock?”
“It’s a safety feature. Think about it. What would happen if both of these doors”—she pointed in front of and behind them—“were open at the same time as the hangar?”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “We’d all get sucked into space.”
“Blown into space,” she corrected. “So the ship won’t let you open the interior door unless it thinks the hangar is sealed.” Leaving the air-lock chamber, she began walking toward the hatch and motioned for him to follow. “And if your sensor is dirty…”
“Then it sends the wrong message?” the guard said.
“Exactly.” When she reached the glassy sensor at the other end of the hangar, she found it covered in a greasy layer of filth. She used her tunic hem to wipe the bulb clean and stood back to show the guard.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see if it worked.”
They returned to the air-lock, and the interior door slid aside without a problem.
“See? An easy fix,” Solara said, beaming a little.
Instead of thanking her for the repair, the bald man peered at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then he held up an index finger and turned his back to make a quiet call. When he faced her again, he announced, “Demarkus invites you to join his table.”
Solara’s prideful grin faltered. She wanted nothing to do with Demarkus. Besides, nobody had told her about pirate dinner protocol. She might use the wrong fork and start a war. “Thanks for the offer,” she said. “But I…uh…have a long trip back, and my captain needs this part.”
Right away she knew she’d put her foot in her mouth.
“Our chief,” the bald man repeated as if talking to a five-year-old, “invites you to his table, an honor extended to few outside the brotherhood.” He didn’t say anything more, but his tone made it clear that this wasn’t really a choice.
“Of course,” Solara said, tapping her right ear. “Forgive me. I lost part of my hearing in a cage fight last year. I would love to dine with your chief.”
The guard ushered her inside with instructions to follow the passageway to the great hall at the center of the ship. She knew she was nearly there when the scents of rust and metal gave way to roasted meat and baking bread. Her stomach gurgled loud enough to be heard over the growing roar of voices, and she mashed a silencing hand over it. She couldn’t afford to show weakness here, not even hunger. But as it turned out, her appetite shriveled like a winter leaf once she reached the main hall.
The belly of the ship was madness.
Dozens of long tables dominated the space, their benches filled to the brim with bawdy crewmen. Their laughter, thick with drink, competed with shouts coming from a raised stage in the center of the room where a bare-knuckle fistfight was under way. One boxer strayed too close to the ring’s invisible ropes, and a jolt of electricity boomeranged him into his opponent’s waiting fist. The fighter’s head snapped back, and he collapsed to the tune of mingled cheers and groans. In the crowd, money exchanged hands and the victors rushed to the bordello booth to spend their spoils.
This was what she’d expected from pirates.
Another armed guard, this time a muscled woman with daggers tattooed across her collarbones, approached and asked, “Lara?”
Solara raised her chin. “Yes.”
“This way,” the woman said while turning into the crowd.
Doing her best to slow her breathing like Doran had taught her, Solara focused on the back of the woman’s head while following through the room and up the stairs to the stage. A private table stood opposite the boxing ring, and four men dined there, tearing hunks of meat from long rib bones. Solara identified their leader at once.
It was easy.
Authority draped over him as clearly as the bloodred sash on his tunic. His companions showed deference in the lowering of their heads, which wasn’t hard to do when he dwarfed everyone in the room. Demarkus was a mountain of a man, resting his ham-sized fists on the table as he scanned the crowd. There was a certain shrewdness in his gaze, one that warned he had brains as well as brawn. His face, framed by long, flowing locks of chestnut hair, had probably been handsome once. But now scars and lumps marred his skin, sun-leathered and stretched tight over his bones in a way that made it impossible to guess his age. His dark eyes landed on Solara and widened a fraction before sparking bright with interest.