Moss’d in Space (Moss’d in Space #1)

Chapter 1

It was Starship Day.

That wasn’t an official holiday, but considering how long Torian Razner, aspiring engineer, current scrap, future captain, had saved for this moment, it really should be.

The journey involved a cramped elevator ride down the central column, where they all had to grip special handles to keep from floating into each other, followed by a secondary elevator that required passengers to strap in.

That elevator moved “sideways,” kind of, while gravity increased between the corridor and the outer ring of this level.

It hardly mattered. The physics of space were not important for Starship Day.

No, three things were important for Starship Day:

First, ships cost a lot of money, which meant Torian was currently carrying her life savings in an easily stolen drawstring bag. This was a bad idea on Colony 13.

Next, if she got mugged, Celise, her sister and a doctor, would not be happy to stitch Torian back up. Again.

Finally, if this drawstring bag was stolen, Celise literally wouldn’t survive long enough for Torian to save up the amount again.

Which meant this very casual stroll to the impound lot was actually the most important journey of Torian’s life—and Celise’s.

She could have asked for an escort. Captain Amelia Perrosk, her employer (and nothing else, nope), would have come. But Amelia had a hard-ass reputation for a reason, and she didn’t take kindly to deserters in her crew.

Torian didn’t think she was deserting.

But she also wasn’t sure Amelia would agree.

Instead, she forced a smooth expression and tried to channel Amelia’s infamous touch me, and I’ll kill you persona.

It was a hollow likeness, since the captain usually had four knives, a shock stick, and a pistol holstered to her attire.

Torian had found her old security pistol, but she couldn’t afford ammo, which meant she had an empty pistol and a fake scowl.

(And the scowl probably seemed more like she was constipated than threatening.)

Even Celise could have done a better job; though she was a doctor, her bedside manner was hot garbage.

The drawstring bag was tucked into a hidden pocket inside Torian’s jacket, pressed against her heart.

She’d padded it so her boobs looked bigger (nothing to see here, nothing unnatural, go about your business, definitely not breasting boobily anywhere).

It might be her imagination, but as the elevator’s gravity increased, every breath seemed to jingle with the ionite bars.

And ionite bars were a prize.

Torian had twenty of them, pure as anything.

Almost a decade of saving, and most of it wasn’t pleasant.

She’d only signed with Amelia’s crew last year—before that, it was a lot of shady underground deals from any security broker who’d work with her.

Lots of broken bones. Lots of scars. Lots of time in Celise’s clinic, laughing as her sister closed wounds and viciously swore at Torian in the same breath.

And too many times, Celise’s breath would be cut short by bone-rattling coughs. She would reach for the oxygen tank, but like the bullets in Torian’s pistol, it was empty more than it was full—pure oxygen from Rhymarra was expensive.

It’s fine, Celise would snap. You’re the one bleeding.

You’re the one dying, Torian would almost reply. (She never did. Not anymore.)

But that’s why today was so important.

Starship Day.

Torian forced herself to take even footsteps, attempting to shift her expression from “constipated” to something confident and standoffish.

The main corridor on this ring was wide and tall, framed with starship docks that were divided by huge bulkheads.

Shops lined the opposite side: resupply stations for space travelers, a few information kiosks staffed by unhelpful drones, a couple brokerage offices that dealt jobs to starship captains.

The corridor’s crowd thinned as she approached the impound lot. A few people glanced her way, which made Torian feel very uncomfortable with her definitely-just-big-boobs.

Challenge them, Amelia always said. They’re expecting you to feel fear. Show them they should be afraid.

So Torian offered a vicious scowl and mouthed, What?

One woman rolled her eyes. A man snorted, and a third burst out laughing. They clearly didn’t have nefarious intentions, since they all waved her off and went on their ways.

Torian hunched, face burning.

She was not good at this.

That thought made Torian’s ever-present fear resurface. For all of Amelia’s advice, despite the fact that Amelia was captain of her own ship, she’d refused to fly Torian to Rhymarra.

Trust me, Scrap. They’ll stop you at their fancy planet’s terraformed atmosphere, she’d snapped.

There was the chance that Amelia was right, and she wouldn’t even be allowed to land on Rhymarra, much less ask the university’s headmaster for the biggest favor of their lives.

But of course, Torian still had a backup plan: alien space.

She’d only seen a few aliens in her entire life, since they rarely entered the human solar system—but plenty of species weren’t hostile.

Somewhere out there, there had to be a planet with cleaner air. Big galaxy, and all.

Either by the grace of the Heavens or her Super Intimidating (empty) Gun and Big, Booby Breasts, Torian reached the impound lot without being mugged. Torian wasn’t one to tempt fate, though: she hurried to push the red button on the side of a shuttered window.

A sharp BZZZZT echoed through the interior lot.

Almost instantly, a Magnium F82 drone slid over the gate, aiming two massive guns at her. Drones didn’t speak, and this model didn’t have cameras, but its heat sensors knew exactly where she was—and where to fire a pulverizing jelly bullet if she tried anything.

Torian went very still. “Ah, h-hello.”

A heavy clank sounded, and the metal shutter rolled away from the window. Behind the counter was a clerk—but not a bland, paper-pushing one. In typical Colony 13 fashion, this man had a pistol strapped to his chest and a scowl on his lips.

“That thing doesn’t talk.” His voice was gruff. “What do you want?”

Near the gate, the Magnium F82 analyzed impassively. It never lowered its weapons.

“I’m…” Torian’s voice died in her throat. With one careful glance at the people traversing the narrow hallway behind them, she whispered conspiratorially, “I’m here to buy a ship.”

The man quirked an eyebrow, assessing her.

To be fair, she probably didn’t look like much: ripped cargo pants, a lumpy bomber jacket zipped over a tank top. The empty pistol was holstered to her thigh, but even the holster was ripped and worn. Her long hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and her pale skin was smudged with grit.

Torian wanted to defend her appearance—that she worked for the Fleet, the most infamous smuggling syndicate in human space.

But then she’d have to admit that she worked as a scrap, a cargo hand, crawling through tight storage areas in the double walls of Amelia’s starship, hiding heavy boxes.

Being a scrap wasn’t glamorous or prestigious, even if it paid well, so Torian kept her mouth shut.

The clerk frowned. “Minimum buy-in for ships is—”

“Twenty ionite bars.” Torian dug into her bra to retrieve the drawstring bag. The clerk didn’t even look surprised at where it was stored; he watched with disinterest as she dropped it on the counter between them. She gestured at the drawstring bag. “I’ve saved enough. You can count them.”

“Hmm.”

The man produced a short, prod-like tool, then clicked his tongue at the drone.

It pivoted from her toward the street, guns ready in case anyone tried to rush the window.

With appropriate discretion, the clerk sorted through the ionite bars behind a metal barrier, testing each with the prod to ensure purity.

Torian held her breath, her heart fluttering. This was the moment she’d dreamed about.

It was a bit anticlimactic.

The clerk grunted approval and swept the bars back into the bag, stepping around the corner of his office—out of sight. A distant beep sounded, and then he returned empty-handed. Likely, there was a safe somewhere behind the counter.

Maybe another drone guarding it … or maybe one was enough. Magnium F82s weren’t cheap, and they definitely weren’t nice. Torian had a deep scar on her leg to prove it.

“You might not like our supply, at this price point.” But he dutifully pressed a button, and the gate slid open. The Magnium F82 drifted left, guns still aimed at the street, and allowed Torian to enter.

Her mind squealed in excitement, but she kept a composed demeanor as she followed him down a short hallway while the gate closed behind her.

What opened before them was a starship wonderland.

The hangar was multilevel and far bigger than Torian ever expected, based on the low ceiling of the hallway.

Ships big and small crowded the space. Some were sleek and shiny, each denoted with a golden light hovering beside it.

The rest were in various states of decay or disrepair, with red or blue lights.

Gangplanks of flimsy metal scaffolding led to each vessel.

Beyond the ships was a huge airlock. Torian had read that aliens used a different standard: a blue energy shield that protected them from the vacuum of space.

But humans had never been able to replicate it, and the CSS—the Confederation of Spacefaring Species—didn’t share its technology with nonmembers.

So, airlocks.

“This way.” The clerk flicked two fingers.

Torian skipped behind him, gaping at a sleek cargo ship looming overhead. There were hoverpads anchored to each corner, a stronger version of the technology the Magnium F82 used.

If Amelia had access to hoverpads, Torian’s job as a scrap would have been a lot easier.

Then again, maybe Amelia did have access, and she just didn’t want her scraps using it. That would be pretty typical for the vicious Princess of the Fleet. There was a standard to be set aboard her starship, after all.

“Are these sorted into price ranges?” Torian asked.