“I thought we were going to the Obsidian Beaches,” Doran said.
“That’s right,” she corrected. “The Obsidian Beaches, then the outer realm.” She remembered the lie she’d told about her overprotective father. “I only contracted you as far as the beaches. Once we’re there, I’ll find another indenture to take me the rest of the way.”
The blond boy stared at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “That won’t be cheap.”
“I can pay you in credits,” she said. “Or fuel chips.”
“We prefer chips.”
“How much?”
“At least two thousand per person, probably more.”
“I’ll give you twice that if we can leave now.”
Fair brows shot up his forehead. He raised an index finger. “Wait here. The captain has to approve all passengers.” Before she could ask him to make an exception, he turned and ran down the boarding corridor.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
The intercom blared, “Passenger Spaulding, report to your ship.”
Solara’s palms began to sweat. She wiped them on her pants while peering down the dark hallway that led to the Banshee. What was taking the captain so long?
Seconds later, she found out.
It had taken him so long because he was older than homemade sin—and twice as terrifying. Like a craggy character ripped from the pages of an ancient seafarer novel, the captain limped onto the hub, every other step a metallic clink that suggested one of his legs was a titanium prosthetic. His eyes looked artificial, too, unnaturally black and scrutinizing her while he stroked a thick white beard. The skin on his face reminded her of a dried apple, withered and caving in on itself, and although his shoulders filled out the broad seams of his jacket, he stooped over and moved with the aid of a crutch.
Solara didn’t know what kind of captain she’d expected, but he wasn’t it.
“Captain Rossi?” she asked, resisting the urge to look away. His gaze burned as real as any med-ray until she could swear he saw inside her. Maybe he did. “I’m Lara, and this is my servant, Doran. We require passage to—”
“The fringe,” he interrupted with a smile that didn’t reach beyond his lips. “And the Obsidian Beaches, of course. We mustn’t forget that.”
Solara swallowed a lump of fear. He knew. Somehow he knew she was lying. Her only hope was that he cared more about money than truth. “Yes, and as I told your ship hand, I’ll pay twice the fare if we can be off.”
He watched her for a few silent moments, continuing to stroke his beard. “In a hurry, are you?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” She tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong. Like a twittering bird that had flown into a window. “I’ve heard the Obsidian sands are so fine it’s like walking on water.”
The intercom repeated, “Passenger Spaulding, report to your ship,” and Solara snuck a glance toward the opposite side of the outpost. What she saw made her insides turn cold. A dozen Enforcers in red uniforms and helmets pointed to the auto mall.
She snapped her head around and faced the captain. “Do we have a deal or not?”
His onyx gaze missed nothing. He looked at the Enforcers and then down at Solara’s gloved hands. Her chest rose and fell in gasps; her thighs tensed to run. If he said no, she would bolt to the nearest ship and take her chances. When the wait had become unbearable, he said, “Ten thousand chips.”
Relief flooded over her, so strongly that she would’ve kissed him if there were time. “Agreed.”
The captain gestured to someone behind him in the corridor, and the boy with the blond dreadlocks approached. “Help Lara’s manservant with the luggage,” the captain said. “Be quick about it. We ship out in five minutes.”
Solara learned that the blond boy’s name was Kane, and he seemed to love nothing more than the sound of his own voice.
“This is the galley,” he said, leading the way inside a small kitchen with an adjacent dining area. A rectangular table was bolted to the floor, and seating consisted of long benches positioned on either side. They were bolted down, too. Everything was—chairs, tool chests, even waste receptacles. On the Zenith, furniture could be moved, but that ship was larger than most high-rise hotels. The Banshee offered only four levels, and the combined engine room and cargo hold occupied one of them.
“You can have breakfast and lunch whenever you want,” he went on. “But everyone eats dinner together in the galley. Captain’s orders.” Kane rested a hand on her shoulder, leaning in as if they were old friends. “He’s a few centuries behind the times.”
Solara glared at his hand, and he withdrew it.
“I’m the cook,” he said. “So don’t expect high cuisine.”