Starflight (Starflight, #1)(78)
She leaned in for a quick kiss before returning to her work. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. We might not be able to go back.”
Doran frowned. He knew that better than anyone. “A guy can dream.”
The captain’s voice came over the Banshee’s intercom system and put an end to the reverie. “Looks like the worst of the storm has passed, so prepare for takeoff. We should arrive at Planet X by morning.”
Planet X—the site of Doran’s errand. That meant his ordeal was almost over, though whether it would end in his favor remained to be seen.
“Want to talk about that?” Solara asked.
“No,” he said.
He didn’t want to think about it, either. In the last few weeks, he’d nearly thought himself to death trying to puzzle out how to save himself and free his father. Now that he realized how many lives in the fringe depended on his return to Spaulding Fuel, he felt a weight on his shoulders so heavy that sometimes he caught himself stooping over. What if he failed? Or if someone else found out about the coordinates and beat him there?
No, he definitely didn’t want to talk about it.
“Well, scratch that,” Captain Rossi grumbled over the intercom. “The storm must’ve shorted the main transmitter. I don’t want to lift off until it’s fixed. Lara, can you come take a look?”
Solara hauled herself out of the coils of tubing beneath the floor. “Sure, just give me a minute.”
“I think the parts are fried,” the captain said. “Maybe you can salvage what we need from the other system.”
“What other system?” she asked, scrunching her forehead.
“The emergency com. It’s a decent backup, but between the two, I’d rather have the main transmitter running.”
“I didn’t know we have a backup.”
“You’re not supposed to. It’s hidden under the console.”
Solara shared a long, silent glance with Doran—one that told him they were both realizing they’d left a stone unturned during their search of the ship. As much as he didn’t want to backtrack, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Kane had used the emergency com to alert the Enforcers.
“All right,” Solara told the captain. “We’re on our way.”
Ten minutes later, Doran was lying underneath the pilothouse control panel, squinting at a tiny com screen while Solara rebooted the hardware from beside him.
The ancient screen blinked to life, asking him to input a recipient frequency. He wasn’t accustomed to this operating system, so it took a few tries to navigate to the main menu, but once there, he tapped the SENT file and waited for the data to populate. Soon, pages of lines filled the screen, each one detailing a date, time, frequency, and length of transmission for every call that had left the Banshee. He scrolled through the previous month, looking for the signature Solar League code that ended in a series of zeroes.
As he searched the data, a sick feeling of foreboding uncurled in the pit of his stomach. It reminded him of the time he’d snooped on his first girlfriend and discovered her with another guy. Looking back, he hadn’t needed the proof. His gut had told him something was wrong, and since then he’d learned to trust his instincts. Right now, those instincts told Doran he would find a government frequency in the ship’s system.
And he did.
A brief, one-way transmission had been sent to the Enforcers weeks ago, on the morning he’d left to shuttle to Obsidian. He read the information twice and triple-checked the date until finally there was no denying it.
Kane had betrayed him.
Doran wasn’t prepared for the blow that came next. An ache opened up behind his chest—the kind of pain that only a friend could inflict. But the suffering didn’t last long. On the heels of that pain came a rage so hot it tunneled his vision and turned it red. He had barely enough forethought to duck out from beneath the console, and then all logic flew out the window. He didn’t care about strategy or timing. All that mattered was finding an outlet for his fists, and he knew exactly where it would be.
Ignoring Solara’s questions, he slammed aside the pilothouse door and flew down the stairs, not bothering to silence the clamor of his boots. A furious pulse pounded in his head, and he couldn’t have held back if he wanted to. The scent of onions led him to the galley, where he paused in the doorway just long enough to scan past Cassia and Renny to the dreadlocked boy standing at the stove.
After that, Doran charged.
When Kane glanced over one shoulder, his eyes flew wide and he dropped his ladle to brace for impact. A microsecond later, their bodies collided with a rewarding smack that sent Kane stumbling backward into the storage wall. Cabinets shook, sending loose tin cups clattering to the floor while voices bellowed from behind Doran. Kane flailed both arms in a struggle to right himself, but Doran didn’t give him the chance. Bracing one hand against the wall, he sank his opposite fist into Kane’s stomach, then drew back to deliver a right hook to the jaw.
Doran’s knuckles screamed at the impact of bone on bone, but he ignored the burn. He’d just wound up for another blow when a powerful set of arms locked around his chest and dragged him back toward the table.
“Enough,” Renny said in his ear. Doran thrashed and kicked like an animal. He landed his boot so hard in the oven door that it left a dent, but he couldn’t escape the hold. Renny was stronger than he looked. “That’s enough,” he repeated. “Don’t make me stun you.”