Free Starflight by Melissa Landers Page B

Miss Brooks. I think it’s time to remedy that.”
    Solara paled a few shades and nodded. Judging by the twitch of her feet, she looked ready to pitch herself out the air-lock—a decision Doran fully endorsed.
    “Let’s talk over breakfast,” she squeaked. It was satisfying to watch her squirm, until she added, “My servant will cook for us.”
    Doran shot her a warning glare. He didn’t cook for anyone. Not even himself.
    “He’ll clean the galley, too,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Our Doran’s no engineer, but he sure is a hard worker. I can’t wait to show you what he’s made of.”

“M ight as well take off the gloves.” Using his crutch for support, Captain Rossi lowered onto the pilot’s seat. Its metal springs groaned beneath his weight, and he mimicked the sound while rubbing one knee. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
    He stowed his crutch on the floor between their chairs, leaning close enough for Solara to hear the tinny click of his artificial heart—a Beatmaster 3000, from the sound of it. The hollow tap was a dead giveaway. Lab-grown donor organs had replaced that technology decades ago, meaning the captain had to be at least a hundred years old. He seemed to have a lot of mechanical enhancements. Solara wondered how long a man could keep replacing his broken parts with machines before he lost what made him a person.
    She pointed at his knee, which could use an upgrade, too. “I’ll bet you felt better when the grav drive was broken. Less stress on your joints.”
    “Don’t change the subject,” he said, powering on the main engine. The ship came to life in a gentle hum that drowned out the sound of his Beatmaster. “I know you’re marked. What’d you do?”
    Solara dropped her gaze into her lap and used a thumb to stroke the buttery leather of her glove. Did the whole crew know? Had they talked about her, worried she might attack them in their sleep? If so, they’d probably bolted their doors last night, too.
    “I didn’t hurt anyone,” she said.
    “I know that.” His tone sounded clipped, as if she’d offended him. “The
Banshee
isn’t much to look at, but she’s where I lay my head at night. If I thought you were a threat, I wouldn’t have let you on board.”
    “Thank you. She’s a fine ship.”
    The captain wheezed a laugh. His chest shook, causing Acorn to flick her long, fluffy tail out of his pocket. “Now I know you’re a liar
and
a con.” He motioned to her with one hand. “Let me see.”
    His smile gave Solara the courage to peel off her gloves. She extended both arms while Rossi squinted at the block letters etched onto her skin. He arched an appreciative brow and let out a whistle.
    “Grand theft,” he said. “And conspiracy. Didn’t see that coming.”
    “It sounds worse than it really is.”
    “Mmm-hmm. I’ve heard that before.”
    “I’m not a thief.”
    She shoved her hands back inside their casings, but that didn’t stop Doran’s voice from echoing inside her head.
You’re a real masterpiece, aren’t you? How many of my credits did you steal at that outpost?
    Just because Doran had money to burn didn’t mean she had any right to take it. Her face grew warm when she pictured the crates of supplies downstairs in her quarters. There was nothing wrong with using his money to buy passage—he had promised her that in their contract—but she’d gone overboard with the clothes and tools…and the ball gown.
    She
was
a thief.
    “I didn’t say you were,” the captain told her. “Inked knuckles don’t mean much.” He disengaged the
Banshee
from its docking station, and with a slight lurch, they left the moon colony behind. Slanting her a glance, he said, “You met Renny. He’ll steal the gun right off an Enforcer’s hip, but he’ll never wear a thief’s mark. He’s too good to get caught.”
    “That’s different,” she said. “Renny has a sweet spirit. He doesn’t want to steal.”
    The captain lifted a shoulder.