Chapter 16
When Torian awoke the next day, the Destitute was very, very quiet.
She pushed upright, stretching, swallowing a yawn as she fumbled for a light.
It was built into the wall, and Moss had partially grown around it—the result was a cozy amber glow that illuminated green, spongy leaves and curling mossy tendrils.
Leaves and tendrils that weren’t vibrating at all.
Why was the ship so still?
Torian’s brain was sluggish, and she stared at the light longer than necessary before asking, “Hey, Moss?”
“Yes, Captain Razner?”
Uh-oh. Captain Razner. “Why so formal?”
“According to my databanks, a ship’s captain commands the vessel. In the event of an emergency, the captain takes charge to rectify the issue.” A pause. “That means this is your problem now.”
Torian pushed off the bed, every nerve igniting. “Fuck. What happened?”
Moss illuminated the lights in the ship’s living area. Nothing looked amiss, but also, there were stars out the windows. Which meant they’d exited a wormhole early. Which meant—
“The engine has failed. We are drifting. I blame the dog-turd fungus inconsiderate asshole.”
Torian clawed her hair into a ponytail, tying it off as she sprinted toward the engine’s hatch. “What? Didn’t Dutch fix that?”
Moss’s tone was grudging. “He fixed it. However, Engine has reported to me that, while the fix was appropriate, the replacement part has failed. It shut down to prevent catastrophic overheating.” Another pause. “I will still blame him.”
Heavens above.
Torian wrenched open the hatch, and a plume of hot air smacked her face. She coughed past black smoke, wrestling Moss back on track. “We’re not still on fire, are we?” If they were, she was fucked—not even Moss’s life support could save her if a fire broke out in space.
In fact, fire might be the one thing that could kill Moss, too.
So, she was relieved when it intoned: “This starship is equipped with sprinklers, both for emergencies and general watering maintenance. So, no, Captain. We are not still on fire.” Another petulant pause. “It is insulting you would assume I’d let a fire run rampant.”
True to its word, the smoke was dissipating—but it still felt too hot to safely descend the ladder. She closed the hatch to protect the oxygen and temperature range she currently had. “You can’t exactly blame me for panicking.”
“You are the captain. You should not panic.”
Torian was a shit captain, compared to someone like Zen or Amelia. She scowled at the ceiling, at the cameras, but drew a slow breath. “Okay. Um. Can you cool the engine room down so I can take a look?”
“It will take time. I have to cycle chilled water through my central system until everything equalizes.”
Torian turned instead to the flight deck, scrubbing her face. At least she didn’t have to worry about clean air until she could fix this. Power must be on auxiliary, too, which was good. Loved her some backups.
Food, though. That could be a problem. She had enough for about a month, but that was if she stretched her supply. If she’d been smart, she’d have resupplied on Rhymarra—but it was supposed to be fast trip back to Colony 13.
Ha. Ha.
Well, at least someone knew they were out here. Torian forced optimism into her tone. “It’s okay. Dutch and Zen are expecting us. They’ll come looking when we don’t dock in Vaesa.”
Moss offered a very judgmental pause before it said, deadpan, “Dutch lost me in a hangar for over one hundred years.”
Torian grimaced, climbing the steps to the flight deck. “Well, Zen, then. He seems responsible.”
“I have six point seven percent confidence in the draic lover.”
Torian ignored that and slid into the pilot’s chair, turning her attention to the control panel. A flashing light caught her eye: the SOS system, or its nylarian equivalent. She checked the coordinate range—but while it was impressively far, it still probably wouldn’t flag someone down for a while.
Space was really, really big.
She chewed her lip. “Can we—um, call Dutch? Can you send a message to Zen’s ship?”
“Do you truly believe I have not already attempted that transmission?”
“I don’t know! You said you only trusted him six point seven percent.”
“My range for communication proved insufficient to summon Zenthielutos. The next solution is yours to determine. Captain.”
“All right,” Torian retorted, burying her head in her hands. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Freedom to travel anywhere, control of her own ship. Starship Day had been a much-anticipated holiday … and it culminated exactly like Amelia had predicted.
Dead in space.
Fucking fantastic.
Torian scrubbed her face, then turned to the flight deck’s control panel, analyzing the holoscreens.
“I can’t do anything until you’ve cooled that engine down.
Then we’ll have to see if I can fix us enough, somehow, so we can limp to the nearest station.
Which is…” She paused, checking coordinates, doing calculations. “Ugh. Colony 4.”
“You dislike Colony 4?”
Torian snorted. “No one likes Colony 4.” She shored her resolve, tapping her chin. “Okay. I need coffee, or ravla, or something. I need to properly review the engine schematics. And I’m going to need every tool or spare part we can find, just in case I can retrofit anything.”
Moss said, “Curious. After our failed attempt to fix the engine on Vaesa, my scenario subsystem predicted you would spend these hours welding a model starship while we awaited a theoretical rescue. Captain.”
“Gee, thanks.” Torian rolled her shoulders, pushing out of her chair.
Time to get to work.
Of course, she made it exactly as far as creating an absolute mess in the living area before a happy ping sounded throughout the ship. Torian glanced up, perplexed, but Moss intoned, “Your rescue has arrived.”
“Our rescue.”
“I am not the one who needs constant nourishment.”
Torian snorted. “How do you fare without power or light?”
“I am moss, which is the most resilient flora in the galaxy. The answer is: Very well, thank you.”
Torian rolled her eyes and folded the massive blueprints. They were printed on a semblance of paper, but written in nylarian. Since her translator only worked with speech and Moss didn’t appreciate being relegated to “nylarian dictionary,” it was slow going. Torian was more than ready for a break.
Nonessential pieces of the Destitute were strewn about the mossy floor, and Torian hopped over them on her way to the flight deck. “Okay, well, who found us? Is it Zen?”
“It appears to be a human vessel.”
Lingering caution from her time with Amelia’s crew made her pause.
Her mind flashed back to Amelia warning about smugglers with no morals, pirates cruising open space, thugs with malicious intent preying on a broken starship.
If an enemy starship was big enough to latch on to them and tow them into a cargo bay, they were fucked.
“What’s the ship’s name?”
“They didn’t provide one. Only that they are ‘willing to offer assistance.’ Their ship is too far to manually assess via the exterior camera, but it is fast approaching.” Moss paused. “Good luck, Captain. I hope you don’t die.”
“Thanks,” Torian deadpanned.
As she climbed the stairs onto the flight deck, only the glimmering of distant stars and expansive darkness met her.
She slid into the pilot’s seat, craning to look through the window—but nothing.
A glance at radar showed the ship was strategically positioning behind the Destitute, away from the cargo bay camera, obfuscating its size and shape.
Not good.
Torian flicked through a couple other screens, hunting for more information. They hadn’t offered an ID number. She could ask for one? Those were much harder to spoof than a ship’s printed name …
Not that she had a databank to track it against. Moss only knew what it had observed from a hundred years on Colony 13. It wouldn’t have a comprehensive list of registered human starships. Even if it did, that wouldn’t tell Torian their reputations.
Rhymarra’s space traffic control and their prissy smuggling databank would have been helpful right about now.
As she deliberated, a light flashed: an awaiting text message from the unknown vessel.
Request: Establish radio contact to coordinate rescue.
It was risky, but Torian didn’t have much choice. She set her jaw and keyed access, tuning the radio to their frequency. Her heart pounded as she said, “This is the … um, the Traitor, hailing from Colony 13. Please identify your ship.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, Amelia’s voice came over the radio: “Well, well. How did I know you’d break down in the middle of space, Scrap?”
Amelia.
The apprehension and fear vanished in a breath, replaced with giddy happiness. A stupid smile slid across her face. Thank the Heavens, the stars, and Moss itself—they weren’t fucked after all.
There was literally no one Torian wanted to see more in the entire galaxy.
Amelia’s ship drifted into view, moving with tiny propulsion jets that nudged it into position. Beside the Destitute, it was a behemoth, and Torian had to crane her neck to see the flight deck: the one area of a human-built ship that utilized an actual window.
Amelia was lounging against that window now, holding her radio. She was wearing that faux-leather jacket Torian had gifted her, and looked too suave to handle. Even from here, Torian could see her smirk.
Torian’s brain went blank, just for a moment. She knew Captain Amelia Perrosk was sexy as fuck—but seeing her casually about to attempt rescue made it almost too much to bear. Heat rose along Torian’s neck and cheeks, even as she clawed her tone into some semblance of nonchalance.
“I’m hardly drifting. We’re just … taking a break.”
“Ah.” Amelia’s shoulders shook from laughter. “Then your SOS was just—”
“Trying to make friends. You know.”