Not surprisingly, the captain agreed.
An hour later, Solara stood wincing in front of the washroom mirror while Cassia plaited her hair into a facial death grip. The braid’s tightness pulled at the corners of her blackened eyes, resulting in an angry expression that said, Speak at your own risk. A steady rotation of gel packs had lessened the swelling above her cheekbone, but she still looked as if she’d gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear.
It was a good start.
Solara stepped back and studied her reflection. A black holster hung low on her hips, complete with two pulse pistols she had no clue how to use. The outside of her thigh showcased a sheathed blade. Its curved edge screamed menace, but she’d probably sever her own artery trying to draw it.
“Smoke and mirrors,” she said, both palms beginning to sweat.
“You’ll be fine.” Cassia patted her on the back. “Just don’t smile—at all. And say as little as possible. Whatever price they quote for the cell, offer sixty percent of that. Any more and they’ll think you’re a pushover. Any less would be an insult.”
“Sixty percent,” Solara repeated while nervous butterflies tickled her belly. She’d never been good at crunching numbers in her head, especially not fractions. And what about pirate law? Until now, she hadn’t known pirates had any laws. What if she broke their rules?
“Hey, slow breaths,” Cassia said.
Solara hadn’t realized she was gasping. “Right. Sorry.”
“If you faint among pirates, don’t bother waking up.”
Oh god. That was not helpful.
The washroom door swung open, and all thoughts of pirates vanished. A tall boy walked inside, dressed in black clothes at least two sizes too tight. His cherry-red hair stood in haphazard spikes, and his eyes were heavily lined in kohl. If a rock star had an affair with a circus clown, this guy would be the result. It took a few moments to recognize him as Doran.
Before a question left her lips, he announced, “I’m your pilot.”
“You?” she choked out. “No way. You’ll get us killed.”
“They won’t kill me,” Doran insisted. “I’m worth too much.”
“But I’m not.”
“I’ll stay in the shuttle. If the plan works, they’ll never see me.”
“And if the plan goes south?”
He gripped both hips. “Look, we both know you can’t fly a shuttle.”
“I can fly,” she argued. It was the landing part she hadn’t mastered.
“Like the time you broke my arm in pilot’s ed class?”
She answered with a glare.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Now, quit arguing and let’s go.”
He stalked out of the washroom, leaving her with a lump of fear in her throat.
“You’ll be fine,” Cassia repeated. But this time she didn’t make eye contact.
Solara learned it was disturbingly easy to summon a pirate. After she and Doran put an hour’s distance between themselves and the Banshee, they cut the thrusters and transmitted the shuttle coordinates to an encrypted radio frequency, along with her name and a request for a propellant cell. According to the captain’s instructions, the pirates would come to her. Now all she had to do was survive the wait without crawling out of her skin.
“Are you sure you used the right signal?” she asked, leaning over Doran’s arm to check the shuttle dashboard. The piercing scent of hair dye watered her eyes and forced her back into her own space. “They should’ve been here by now.”
“They’re thieves, not doctors,” Doran said. “They’ll come when they feel like it.”
She wiped both palms on her pants. “Like you’re an expert.”
Instead of taking the argument bait, Doran turned to face her. His expression showed no panic, which was beyond unfair. “Calm down. It’s going to be okay.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
She glanced down and saw that he was right.
“Take a sip of this.” He reached inside his jacket and handed over a flask. “The captain said it’d bring you down a notch.”
Solara tipped back the flask for a quick pull and forced down a mouthful of liquid flame, nearly retching at the taste. She coughed and pounded her chest. “Thanks,” she wheezed. “If anyone corners me, I’ll breathe on them.”
“Feel better?”
“If by better you mean pukey, then yes.”
He expelled a heavy sigh and reached for her wrist. “Here, give me your hand.”
“What for?” she asked, eyeing him warily.
“So I can help you relax. If you try to negotiate with these people while your hands are shaking, we’re screwed.”
“Help me how?”
“Just give it here,” he snapped. “Why is everything a battle with you?”