Chapter 11
Six Weeks Ago
I take the job because I need the money.
Normally I wouldn’t. The fare is two passengers, both men.
My typical policy is that I don’t transport men who outnumber me.
But I’m behind on rent after a bad case of the flu put me in the hospital for a few days, and I’ve been living on dehydrated noodles for the past three weeks.
I study the passengers’ bios on my viewscreen, and I know that despite my gut’s warning, it’s the right choice to take them.
The memory of my boss’s voice comes to me: If you keep insisting on being so picky with your fares, you won’t last long here. We take what we can get. You grew up on New Earth; you know that.
I do know that. And he’s right.
When I touch down at the appointed pickup spot, my passengers are waiting with warm smiles.
One of them is tall and gangly, pale, with eyes too big for his head and a wide mouth.
The other is of average height and build.
He’s blandly attractive, with well-styled dark hair.
They wear tailored suits, and their luggage is designer.
I know the type. They’re new money. Dirty money.
They either run a gambling den or a smuggling operation, or both.
But their bios aren’t flagged for any sexual offences, and their credits, while probably obtained by questionable means, are legit.
I offer to help them with their bags, and they politely decline.
I give them the usual spiel: Take-off is in ten minutes; make sure you secure your personal items properly; here’s how to strap in; let me know if there are any health concerns I should know about before take-off.
They nod, smiling, and offer their thanks as they board my ship.
Many travelers require reminders before take-off, repetition of the rules. These men require none. They sit down, secure their seatbelts, and wait. We’re ready for take-off within three minutes. They are model passengers.
As we ascend toward the atmosphere, the ground falling out from under us, my throat tightens. There’s no reason for my anxiety. I’ve done this a thousand times. The dash readouts are normal.
At the corner of my viewscreen is a real-time feed of the passenger bay. I need to see if my passengers do anything that might put their lives at risk. To ensure their safety. And to ensure mine.
But nothing is wrong. The men are secured in their seats.
The ship vibrates like a toy in the violent hand of a child, and I grit my teeth as we break through the atmosphere.
Heat, sound, and a horrible vibration – and then we are drifting in the quiet.
The infinite expanse of the universe surrounds us.
I’ll never get used to this; to the weightlessness, the freedom of being surrounded by infinity.
I cut the heavy thrusters and set a course.
This won’t be a long trip. Eight hours at optimal conditions.
I press the comm button. ‘We’ve reached our cruising speed for the journey,’ I say, checking my readouts.
‘Conditions are ideal, so I expect to reach our destination in seven hours and fifty-three minutes. Feel free to remove your seatbelts and move about the ship as needed, but the cockpit is off-limits.’
Not that there’s much of anywhere to go.
There’s the passenger bay, the galley, and the bathroom.
The galley is mostly a cabinet with dehydrated food for the taking, and a tiny coffee station.
It’s not a comfortable ship by any means, but the passenger seats pull out to make a cramped cot if someone needs to sleep.
And I pride myself on the fact that I provide above-standard coffee.
Glancing at the passenger viewscreen, I see that one of the men, the taller one with a wide mouth, is unbuckling his seatbelt. The other is laughing.
My heart leaps into my throat. There’s no reason for my immediate fear. I just said they were free to wander the ship. I take a long, unsteady breath. Then, determined not to let these men get to me, I spin away from the dash. I need a coffee anyway.
I go to the cockpit door and press a fist against the door control. The door slides open.
The tall man stands just outside. He’s leaned on the door frame, like he’s been waiting for me. Like he knew I’d come out. I freeze, a knot in my throat. He’s just going to ask something mundane, like how to flush the toilet. He’s going to ask where I keep the coffee cups. It’s fine.
‘Hey.’ His tone is nonchalant but friendly, and he smiles crookedly. He holds out a hand. ‘We didn’t get to properly introduce ourselves. I’m Christian.’
I hesitate for an instant. There’s nothing threatening in his demeanor. I extend my hand and he shakes it, warm and firm.
‘Midonia,’ I say, forcing a smile. Then I add, not wanting to come off as hostile, ‘Nice to meet you.’
His smile widens. ‘You too, you too. My buddy over there, he’s just grabbing us coffee. You want one?’
I wanted a coffee, but not anymore. Not with them. I try to swallow the knot in my throat. ‘Ah, no thank you, I’m okay. I’ve got work to do, sorry.’
Christian shrugs, but backs off. ‘No worries.’
The cockpit door is halfway closed when a hand, not Christian’s, stops the door from closing. Yanks it back open. There, next to Christian, stands the shorter man with dark hair. He grins playfully. ‘You weren’t going to disappear back in there without a proper hello, were you?’
I force a laugh. ‘Sorry, no … of course not. I’m just busy.’
‘Come on,’ the shorter man says. He’s holding two coffees, and hands one to his friend. ‘We don’t bite. I’m Rory, by the way.’
‘Hi, Rory. Midonia.’
They smile down at me, all teeth. There’s a broken blood vessel in Rory’s left eye. His tie is just a little crooked. He sips his coffee.
‘Hey,’ says Christian, ‘can we have a tour of the cockpit? We’ve never been on a ship like this before.’
‘You’ve never been on a transport ship?’ I ask, incredulous.
Rory shoots Christian a tight, fleeting glance, then turns his open, friendly gaze back to me. ‘Nah, of course we have. We just usually take the buses. Shit-heaps, you know.’
I used to take those buses too, before I invested in my ship.
I may not fly a luxury-class transport, but it is a damn sight nicer than the government-funded public buses, where they try to cram as many passengers into one ship as they possibly can.
It’s impossible not to catch a nasty cold on a bus, and worse, there’s no coffee.
‘This one’s pretty nice,’ Christian says, looking past me into the cockpit, pushing his lower lip out as he nods appreciatively. He sips his coffee. ‘Not particularly flashy, but you keep her in good shape. You should be proud. What’s her mileage like?’
My muscles begin to relax. My heart slows. They’re just nerds. Shipheads.
‘It’s not bad,’ I reply, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
‘I can crack light speed if I push her, but I try not to. Burns out the engines. I’m saving up for a nuclear core though.
’ I don’t know why I lie; it just slips out.
If I had any savings to speak of, it’d be going straight toward rent.
But the men nod as I speak, and I can tell they’re surprised, impressed. My ship doesn’t look like a light speed flyer.
‘I upgraded her,’ I add, backing into the cockpit. The men follow me in, and when I point at a plaque near the dash, they crowd around it and curse with appreciation. ‘See the year?’ I say. ‘She’s vintage. But a reliable model with a solid chassis.’
‘You did some great work here,’ Rory says. He sips his coffee.
‘Great work,’ Christian echoes.
Rory turns to me. His eyes are dark, shark-like in the dim cockpit. Alarm cuts through me as I realize that he and Christian are now between me and the door.
They’re just nerds. Shipheads.
‘So how does a pretty girl like you end up in a job like this?’ Rory’s question sounds innocent enough. He’s smiling, his gaze roving over the ship’s interior. Christian is eyeing the dash with drawn-together brows. They’re not even looking at me. They’re interested in the ship.
‘She works her ass off,’ I reply, and too late I realize my tone is all wrong. Too defensive. I clear my throat. ‘It’s not ideal, but I’ll take what I can get.’
They share a fleeting glance. In that instant, the air in the cockpit changes.
My stomach lurches like the first drop on a rollercoaster.
I don’t know what it is, if it’s the twitch of an expression, or the subtle movement of bodies, that tells me I’m not safe here.
It doesn’t matter how I know. But I know.
Christian leans against the wall. Rory’s gaze finally slides over to me, and it’s like the sickening turn of a key in a lock, trapping me on the wrong side of a door. He moves toward me casually, his smile easy and open. ‘How do you usually pass the time on these trips, Midonia?’
‘Not much to do on a little transport like this,’ Christian adds. And now he, too, is watching me. His body language is relaxed, his head cocked back as he looks down his nose at me. Yet I feel punctured by their eyes, a prey animal in the night, just before the predator springs.
‘Ah, well.’ My voice is hoarse. I swallow. ‘It can get boring. There are playing cards in the passenger bay, in one of the storage compartments. And chess. Do you play chess?’
They must hear it in my voice. They must smell it on me. The stench of fear.
Rory’s gaze drags from my face down to my feet, then back up again. He reaches out to pull playfully at the collar of my jacket. ‘Nah, not a fan of cards.’
‘Or chess,’ Christian adds, pushing off the wall.
They pen me in. I could easily get to the cockpit door, if they don’t stop me.
There’s still a sheen of propriety here.
Plausible deniability. If I had a gun on me and I pulled it right now, I’m the one who would look insane.
All three of us know the crystallized truth that expands now through my veins, making my blood buzz with adrenaline – they are in control here.