Chapter 3 #2
“I’m not a—” Torian started to say, but Amelia looked at her then, and the words died in Torian’s throat. The captain’s eyes were blue, as startling and dangerous as the flame of Torian’s pocket welding torch, with all the matching heat.
“Traitor it is,” the dock worker said, and tapped the name into the records. Then she powered off the datapad, offered Amelia a respectful, “Good to see you, Captain,” and strolled away.
How was Torian a bystander when naming her own ship?
But that was how Captain Amelia Perrosk did business.
Everyone on Colony 13 knew her, or knew of her.
Already, the crowd was dissipating under her stern gaze.
A few folks about-faced with sheepish expressions.
Within a couple minutes, the rest of the onlookers made the same connection: Show’s over, nothing to see, Fleet business.
Except it wasn’t Fleet business.
Irritation sparked in Torian’s chest, and she crossed her arms. “What the hell, Amelia? You can’t name my ship!”
“I think I just did.” Amelia’s voice was vaguely amused. She was tall and lean, but moved with powerful grace. A tattoo’s dark ink contrasted against her copper skin, barely visible beneath the jacket’s collar. Her hair was short, spiky, and black as the vacuum of space.
In short, she was distractingly sexy. Torian’s anger faltered when Amelia’s lips quirked, offering a smile that almost felt kind.
Almost.
Her voice, meanwhile, was a predator’s purr. “You know, in all my years with the Fleet, I’ve never had a crewmember buy a competing starship right under my nose.”
She flicked a short knife from a sheath hidden in her sleeve. Torian thought, Oh shit, she wouldn’t actually stab me, would she? But Amelia just began cleaning her manicured nails with the tip.
Torian fumbled for something to say, but the moment she opened her mouth, the tug driver stepped into the conversation. Torian had almost forgotten he was here, but clearly he was done unhitching her new starship.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, Captain?”
Torian waited for Amelia’s response. After a beat of awkward silence, Amelia said, “I believe he means you, Scrap.”
Oh, shit. Torian spun on her heel, offering an apologetic smile to the man. “Y-yes? Sorry.”
“Sign here,” he said, offering her a datapad. “For proof of delivery.”
She signed. He checked the document, then nodded and stepped into the driver’s seat of his tugboat.
It was a small vessel, with a tiny porthole to see through, cameras mounted on the outside, and a narrow door that hissed with pressurization.
Once he was spaceworthy, he steered the tugboat off the dock, joining a couple other starships in the massive airlock on the far wall.
The airlock’s door closed behind them, and released the ships—and tug vessel—out to space.
That left Torian and Amelia standing beside an ancient, moss-covered starship apparently named the Traitor.
So much for avoiding conflict.
“What do you want, Amelia?” Despite her best efforts, frustration seeped into her tone.
She wished she could hold anger like Amelia did—as an iron meteor, cold to touch, mottled and dense with cruel promise. Instead, Torian’s anger felt more like a molten core that dripped through her fingers, cooling instantly into brittle, unhelpful shapes.
(It was something she really disliked about herself.)
“What do I want?” Amelia repeated the words with a venomous tilt. “How interesting that you seem to care about that now.”
Okay, that wasn’t fair. Torian scowled. “I told Opula—”
“You didn’t tell me, Scrap.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Torian muttered.
Amelia set her jaw, eyes flashing. “I gave you a year of safe employment at an absurdly high pay scale. Never in my life did I imagine you’d buy a ship and leave without so much as a goodbye.”
For a moment, Torian thought she was upset at Torian specifically leaving—that maybe, maybe, there was something lingering between them after all, and Amelia was finally ready to admit it. She hated how her heart fluttered at the idea.
But in the next breath, Amelia made it all about business. “Do you even realize what this will get you?” She gestured at the starship beside them.
Torian’s voice was stiff. “Yes. Freedom.”
“You had freedom,” Amelia said. “This is a liability. A meteoric sign of stupidity, paraded around for everyone in the Fleet to see.”
Torian felt hot and shaky. She hated confrontation, especially like this, especially with someone like Amelia. But she couldn’t back down, and she didn’t want to cry, so she pivoted. “Nine months ago, I told you about my sister. The day I gave you that jacket—remember?”
It should have softened Amelia’s ire, but instead it just made her tense. If possible, her words were crueler now than before. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not this again, Torian.”
It stoked Torian’s ire. She clenched her fists. “I told you she has Halyon’s disease. She’s going to die, and Rhymarra is how I’ll save her.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told you then. Going to Rhymarra is a fool’s fucking errand.”
It hurt to hear it from Amelia’s lips—lips that used to quirk upward whenever Torian entered a room, lips that had once pressed passionately against hers.
They used to stay up late in Bartlet’s galley, talking about the galaxy and their dreams for it.
They used to take shore leave together, exploring the other colony space stations.
Torian had made a model of Amelia’s starship, for fuck’s sake—it still sat on display on the flight deck.
Torian thought those memories would at least soften Amelia’s cold reputation.
What a joke.
“Well. Since you wouldn’t bother taking me, I’m going to Rhymarra myself, in my own ship.”
“Don’t pull that bullshit. You know why I wouldn’t take you.”
Torian stiffened. “Because ‘smuggling ships are flagged,’ and they know yours? You change your ship’s name every week.”
“The ID number can’t be changed, Scrap, and Rhymarrans track those the second you enter their space.
” Amelia’s voice was hard, and she flicked the small knife back into its sheath.
“I told you six months ago that I would handle it. I’ve been working on getting another ship—one without any kind of smuggling connections. ”
It felt like a false promise, a final attempt to keep Torian on her ship, in her crew.
In her clutches. Torian’s anger was turning brittle, and sarcasm broke through.
“You’re the prized ‘Princess of the Fleet.’” Torian knew that there were others fighting for that title, that nothing in this work was guaranteed—but she wielded it like a shield anyway.
“It doesn’t sound very difficult or time consuming for you to find another ship. ”
“Finding another Fleet ship that isn’t already flagged for smuggling is very hard, considering our line of work,” Amelia snapped.
“Have you tried the impound lot a few levels down?” Torian couldn’t help saying it.
Amelia barked a laugh. “My bars went to you, Scrap. You and the rest of my crew.”
“Well, I saved my money. And then I bought a ship to go to Rhymarra myself, because last month, my sister started coughing blood.”
That hung between them.
Amelia’s expression softened. She pressed her lips together, rubbing her face with a hand.
“I get it. But you won’t be allowed to land on Rhymarra.
They don’t give a shit about you or your sister.
And this ship?” She pointed at the moss-covered vessel.
“It’s a huge risk for so many reasons. It looks ancient; what happens if there’s a mechanical? ”
“I’m at the point of taking risks. I have to try.” Torian’s voice was dark.
Amelia drew a slow breath and grumbled something inaudible. She paced away from Torian, then back again. She fished a small pack of ammo—jelly bullets, meant to pulverize bone without piercing starship hulls—and tossed it at Torian. “Don’t forget ammo, because I know you always do.”
“Gee, thanks,” Torian said drily, but she pocketed the bullets.
“When you’re stranded somewhere, don’t come crying for us.” Her voice eased to something vaguely sarcastic, tinged with an undertone Torian couldn’t quite place. “I hope it works out for you, Torian. Truly. I hope Rhymarra throws a welcoming parade in your honor.”
“Sure.” Torian wasn’t sure if Amelia meant that. Still, this wasn’t how she wanted to leave this almost-relationship, so she cautiously added, “I did enjoy my time on your ship. It was nice to … well, to almost get to know you.”
That Night hung between them.
That Night Torian was released from the medical bay, limping back to her bunk to sleep off the wound.
That Night Amelia cornered her in the corridor, eyes rimmed in red, and whispered, That was fucking stupid. Don’t ever do that again.
Torian had released a shaky breath, their proximity overriding any pain, her mind blissfully blank as Amelia was drawn closer, as she replied, Okay.
You’re worth more than that, Amelia had said.
I know. Torian’s voice was distant.
You’re worth more to me, Amelia had clarified.
Her lips were so close to Torian’s in that moment. They were alluring, slightly chapped with the dry air, barely an inch from Torian’s own lips. Can I kiss you? she’d asked, bleary with medicine and wholly convinced this was the right move.
Amelia had responded by crashing her lips to Torian’s.
And then, just as Torian’s heart soared and all the unspoken near-touches that had ignited her in the last few months became reality, and this was real, she was kissing Amelia, and holy shit it was so, so good—Amelia had pulled away.
And Torian spent six months wondering why.
“You never got to know me,” Amelia said now.
The words would be cruel in a vacuum, but her tone was distant, regretful, her posture almost …
sad. She set her jaw, moved on before Torian could analyze that.
“If your time with my crew was just a means to an end, then I guess we’ve reached the end. Enjoy your means, Captain Razner.”
Amelia turned swiftly on her heel and walked away.