Chapter 3
Torian hadn’t wanted to join the Fleet, but it paid well and let her explore the solar system in the meantime. All she had to do was stare pointedly at a wall as they hauled cargo boxes she didn’t care to examine.
(At the very least, the Fleet had strict rules about what could be transported, and by whom.
They didn’t move people. Ever. Animals were also off-limits, at least on the starships Torian had served with.
She’d sneakily inspected every crate she stored in Amelia’s starship, and the worst thing she’d found were stacks of guns purchased by a very mean corporation owner.
If those guns misfired on testing, Torian certainly wasn’t responsible.)
Overall, it wasn’t a bad place to make a few bars. There were certainly worse options.
Granted, Torian had never tried to leave the Fleet. When her contract was up, they automatically renewed it to a different starship. She’d served on ten or so before Amelia hired her. Now, she wasn’t entirely sure what the process was to quit.
After dinner with Celise, she decided the best option was to just … leave.
While she packed up her bunk, one of her neighbors cast a knowing glance her way. His tone was scathing. “Perrosk finally kicked you out, huh?”
Torian stiffened. “She didn’t kick me out. I’m quitting.”
The man, a stiff, wiry fellow named Lent, rolled his eyes. The motion was so exaggerated she thought he might fall off his bunk. “Sure. And you smacking lips with the captain has nothing to do with it.”
“It happened once,” she hissed.
“Once is more than most. We’ve all seen your special treatment.” Lent waved a rough hand. “Good riddance.”
Torian scowled and packed the rest of her gear in silence.
She made one stop on the way out—the galley.
Most of Amelia’s crew were crude and quiet, but she’d found exactly one friend on this starship, and it was the head chef, Bartlet.
They were older, bearded and built, and had an edge like a knife.
Except one night when Torian felt sick, they made her a small glass of actual milk, warm and cozy.
“Captain’s stock,” they’d said gruffly, and slid it to her in an opaque cup. “Don’t tell her.”
Now, Torian closed the galley door behind her, waiting quietly until Bartlet noticed. They paused by the stove, casting an appraising glance at her. Loisa, their assistant, huffed at the intrusion, but Bartlet just told her, “Take a break,” and she wasn’t going to complain about that.
Alone, Bartlet said, “So, you’re leaving.”
“I bought my starship,” she replied. “Just … wanted to say goodbye. And thank you.”
Bartlet crossed thick arms, leaning against the counter. “Good. You can do better than this.”
They were the only one irritated when she’d been demoted. She’d tried to pretend it was a good thing, but they’d stirred a huge bowl of soup with far more anger than typical and said, Security’s more prestigious. She’s ensuring you can never leave this ship.
I’m saving to buy my own, Torian had replied, frowning. I don’t mind staying here until I can afford that.
Scraps don’t make much.
They make enough, Torian had said. She’d checked—and this demotion wasn’t a pay cut. My sister’s happy. This is safer.
Bartlet had grunted, and everyone had moved on.
Now, they sipped from a dented metal cup, one she knew was frequently flavored with cheap liquor. “Stay alert, Razner. Captain’s going to be covering for you, but that only lasts as long as her position does.”
That was ridiculous. Amelia had been a captain for five years. Everyone knew her by this point—the youngest, fiercest Fleet captain in the system. Her “position” wasn’t at risk; no one challenged her.
At least, not since she’d made examples of the few who tried.
“She doesn’t have to cover for me. I got a new ship. I’m allowed to exit a contract.”
“Are you?” Bartlet raised an eyebrow.
Torian suddenly felt apprehensive. But she’d checked the contract, and wouldn’t have signed without an exit clause. “Yes.”
Bartlet grunted. “You get food for the trip?”
“I placed a virtual order after I bought the ship. Should be getting to the hangar around the same time as the vessel.”
Bartlet jerked a thumb at the door. “Good. Get goin’, then.
Don’t look back.” They paused, pushing off the counter and abandoning their cup to rifle through a cabinet.
In a moment, they plucked out a small bag of chocolates—rare things imported from Rhymarra, expensive as anything.
They tossed it to her. “From me. Thanks for the visits.”
Torian swallowed hard, pocketing them. No one refused a gift from Bartlet. She waved, they nodded, and that was that.
“Don’t look back,” they’d said.
Torian had meant to stop by the captain’s quarters before exiting, but now she felt unsettled. Amelia wouldn’t stop her, certainly, but—why risk it? Torian had places to be, and none of them involved this starship or the Fleet. Not anymore.
So, she left.
And she’d barely made it three steps to the cargo bay’s door when Opula intercepted her.
“You’re quitting.” This wasn’t a question.
Amelia’s quartermaster had been a Fleet member longer than Torian had been alive.
She was a grizzled old woman with scars cutting into her cheek and eyebrow, tattoos up her arms, and a reputation as cutthroat as her appearance.
For all that, she’s always been on good terms with Amelia, an ever-present shadow ready to support.
Now, Torian questioned what Opula thought of the rest of the crew.
Or rather, her, specifically.
“Take what you want,” Amelia had always said.
Torian squared her shoulders, meeting Opula’s gaze. “My contract states that I’m allowed to exit Fleet employment at will. I’m executing that clause. Please thank Amelia for all of her help.”
“Captain Perrosk wasn’t helping you. She was paying you for a job—which you’re leaving without warning.” Opula narrowed her icy eyes.
Celise didn’t have time to waste with advance notice. Torian had a starship; it would be docking in a public hangar any minute now. She set her jaw and stared Opula down. “Are you going to stop me?”
For a moment, they both held each other’s gaze.
Then, Opula turned back to the smuggling crates she’d been assessing. “I advocated for kicking you off this crew six months ago. You’re making my day easier.”
“I did well in both jobs on this ship,” Torian snapped.
“Don’t fool yourself, Razner. You were almost killed in security work, and being a scrap requires no skill at all.” The words were harsh, unforgiving.
Torian bristled, even as humiliation prickled her skin. “Then it shouldn’t be hard to replace me.” With a final glare, she stomped off the ship—a blocky beast of a vessel with hidden guns and an ever-shifting name—and exited the private hangar.
Good riddance.
Private hangars like Amelia’s were expensive as shit, and usually reserved for Fleet members. As such, Torian’s new ship had been towed to a crowded hangar on the opposite side of the station.
She shouldn’t have been surprised that her new starship—ancient, alien, covered in moss—had attracted a crowd.
Beyond the gawking bystanders, a dock worker was checking a datapad while a tugboat operator detached from Torian’s new ship.
Torian wove through the spectators, nervously approaching them.
“Is everything okay?”
Now that she was closer, she could see that a delivery had already been made to the ship—a crate of food she’d ordered, essentials to last a month, at least. Torian squinted at that briefly, irritated that the delivery person had just …
left it here, in front of a crowd, without making her sign for it.
She supposed she should be grateful for the dock worker’s presence. The presence of an official Colony 13 representative appeared to have deterred any thieves.
“This your vessel?” the dock worker asked, assessing Torian like a roach under her shoe.
Torian didn’t care if something was wrong. She was a captain now, and this was her starship. She puffed her chest. “I just bought it. The records should have been sent over from the impound lot.”
The woman tapped her datapad with a hand. The holoscreen flickered at the contact, then reset into green words on a black background. “We need a name to register the ship.”
Well, shit.
“I can’t read the name.” Clearly, no one could, since even this woman had to ask for it. But the dock worker crossed her arms, waiting for more, so Torian added, “I was hoping to find a tou’siil to identify the language.”
The woman laughed boldly. “Sure. We’ll all just find a tou’siil. Good fucking luck.” She gestured at the ship’s unreadable name. “We checked our station’s AI, and it can’t identify the language either. So—it’s a clean slate, Captain. What do you want to call it?”
Terror filtered into Torian’s mind. “I—I don’t know. What did it register as when it docked?”
“If I could find those records, I wouldn’t be here.” The woman shook her head. “Can you just pick a name so I can get back to my job?”
“Oh, I have one,” a feminine voice said from behind Torian. Her tone seemed warm and pleasant, but held the harshness of artificial light over a garden: too bright, falsely cheerful, even as leaves crisped and plants wilted.
Torian full-body flinched, because fuck, fuck, Amelia was not supposed to find her so fast, and in a perfect world her ex-captain wouldn’t be strolling through a curious crowd, armed to the teeth with knives and a shock stick and two pistols, dressed in the brown synthetic leather jacket Torian had gifted her nine months ago when she thought Amelia might be her friend and damn, it was a nice thought to have friends.
(Even after their ill-fated kiss and Torian’s subsequent demotion, Amelia kept wearing the jacket. That was very frustrating to Torian, both because it symbolized something that had already passed—and because it looked fucking good on her.)
Amelia met the dock worker’s gaze and offered a scathing smile. “The ship’s name is Traitor.”