He released her face as the next command sounded from the intercom. “Passenger Lara. Leave all weapons inside your craft and exit with your hands visible. Any aggression will be met with lethal force.”
With trembling fingers she tossed her pistols and knife to the floor, then took a moment to draw a deep breath as the shuttle floated inside the massive metal holding chamber and touched down. A grinding noise signaled the hatch closing, followed by the whir of heated oxygen filling the hangar. When it was safe to exit, a buzzer sounded.
“Thirty minutes,” Doran said, unlocking the shuttle door. “And then I’m coming after you.”
Solara didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded and climbed down to the steely floor. She made her way to the front of the enclosure, where two armed men stood guard at the metal door leading to the air-lock. From where she stood, they didn’t look like pirates, just ordinary men from the streets. Except better fed.
One of the guards, a bald man with a second pair of eyes tattooed on his scalp, pointed at a circle painted on the floor and told her, “Stand there.”
She did as instructed, and an overhead beam scanned her for weapons. Once cleared, she folded both arms, making sure her conviction codes were visible. It worked. She saw the respect in the nearly imperceptible nods of the guards’ heads. For once, her ink was actually useful.
“Propellant cell, right?” the first man asked.
Solara nodded.
“Fifty thousand fuel chips.”
She pretended to consider his offer while mentally calculating sixty percent. Half of fifty was twenty-five, and ten percent of fifty was five. So thirty? To be safe, she guessed high. “Thirty-five.”
“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.”