Starflight
Authors: Melissa Landers
Copyright © 2016 by Melissa Landers
Cover design by Maria Elias
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Designed by Maria Elias
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN 978-1-4847-3527-5
For Carey Corp, a brilliant brainstorming
partner and an even better friend.
W
hat if nobody picks me? Nothing can be worse than that.
Solara’s pulse quickened, and her palms turned cold. She hadn’t considered the possibility that no one would want her, but now, as she scanned the servants area, she noticed only two indenture candidates standing with her behind the gate—an elderly man with more hair in his ears than on his head and a teenage boy who couldn’t stop scratching himself. Of the fifty standby travelers who’d arrived that morning, the three of them were the leftovers. The last boarding call would sound in a few minutes, and if she couldn’t entice a passenger to hire her in exchange for a ticket to the outer realm, she’d have to wait sixty days for the next spaceliner.
That wasn’t an option.
Brightening her smile, she stood up straighter and tried to catch the eye of a woman with her shirttail untucked and a chunk of dried food in her hair. “Pardon, ma’am,” Solara called. “Are you traveling with young children? I can help. All I require is passage to the last stop.”
The woman paused midstride, then tipped her head in contemplation. She chanced a step toward the servants gate. “Do you have experience?”
“Yes, ma’am! I practically raised the little ones in my group home.”
“Group home?” The woman pruned her mouth and regarded Solara with new eyes, taking in the grease stains on her state-issued coveralls and the holes in the toes of her scuffed brown boots. “Show me your hands.”
Solara feigned ignorance as her stomach dropped. “What?”
“Your hands,” the woman repeated. “I want to see them.”
With a sigh, Solara removed her fingerless gloves and allowed the passenger to read the tattoos permanently inked across her knuckles. She didn’t bother trying to explain. It never made a difference anyway.
“That’s what I thought.” The woman shook her head in disdain exactly like one of the nuns at the home. Then she stalked away without another word.
The old man standing beside Solara invaded her personal space and delivered a light elbow nudge. He leaned in and whispered, “I know someone who can clear your record. He’s the best forger in Houston—even the new laserproof ink is no match for him.”
Solara rolled her eyes. She knew a dozen flesh forgers. Finding an expert wasn’t the problem. “If I had that kind of money, I wouldn’t be standing here, would I?”
He flashed both palms and backed away.
Soon a group of businessmen approached the gate in search of stewards for the five-month voyage. Solara hid both hands behind her back and offered her widest grin, but it wasn’t enough. They indentured the old man and the itchy teenager instead.
Panic crept over her as she scanned the vacant station and the thick metal doors leading to the boarding platform. There were no passengers left. At any moment, the shuttle would transport thousands of vacationers to the moon’s space station, where they’d board the SS
Zenith
and set off for exotic destinations.
Why hadn’t anyone chosen her?
She wouldn’t describe herself as pretty, or charming, or even entertaining, but the calluses on her palms proved she was a hard worker. She practically slept with a ratchet in one hand and a wrench in the other. Every time the diocese shuttle sputtered and coughed, it was Solara the nuns called on to fix it, even if it meant freeing her an hour early from chapel detention, where she usually knelt in penance for peeking at her data tablet during morning prayers. And when the engine purred once again, Sister Agnes would rub her arthritic fingers and remark that she’d never trained a better mechanic.
Didn’t that count more than a criminal record?
Apparently not.
The click of high heels turned Solara’s attention to the lobby, where a stunning girl of about eighteen sashayed toward the gate, wheeling a tote behind her. An animal yipped from inside the bag, a lapdog from the sound of it.
The young woman brushed a bit of lint from the lapel of her designer dress, then tossed a curtain of glossy pink hair over one shoulder and called to someone out of sight. “Hurry. If we miss the shuttle, your father will make us wait an hour before sending another one, just to prove a point.”
Sensing her last chance of escape, Solara rose onto her toes to wave at the girl. “Miss! Over here!” She achieved eye contact and smiled. “I’m an excellent maid. All I require is…”
But it was no use. The girl scowled and turned away.
A deep male voice sounded from the entrance, “I wouldn’t mind missing it. I can’t breathe in those tight spaces,” and a tall boy strode into view.
He’d slung a tuxedo jacket over one shoulder and loosened the first few buttons of his collar. Practically oozing indifference, he moved at a leisurely pace as if the
Zenith
would wait an eternity for him.
Because it would.
Solara had never seen him out of academy uniform, but the boy was easy to recognize. He was Doran Spaulding: heir to the galaxy’s largest fuel corporation, first-string varsity football star, and a complete pain in her ass. Freshman year, she’d won a day scholarship to the mechanical engineering program at his private academy—classes only, no room or board—and he’d done his best to punish her for it ever since. Especially after she’d beaten him for the Richard Spaulding Alumni Award. There’d been other tiffs, too, like the time she broke Doran’s quarterback arm during a bad landing in pilot’s ed class. But that had been an accident, and he’d only had to sit out for half the season. She knew the real reason for his anger had always been the humiliation of losing his father’s award to a penniless girl with no family of her own. As if she’d tarnished his precious name by association.
It was clear he recognized her, too, because the instant their eyes met, he stopped and laughed. “Rattail,” he called. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Reflexively, Solara fingered the squiggly birthmark at the base of her throat, the one Doran had once said reminded him of a rodent’s tail. That’d been four years ago, and she still hadn’t managed to shake the nickname.
“You missed graduation,” he said, though she didn’t know why he cared. “I guess all that free education didn’t mean much if you couldn’t be bothered to take your diploma.”
Solara indulged in a small grin, relieved that he hadn’t heard the news. The real reason she’d missed graduation was because the academy had dropped her like a flaming brick the instant they learned about her felony conviction. “I tested out early,” she said, which technically wasn’t a lie. “With a near-perfect score.”
He didn’t seem to like that. Jutting his chin at the indenture band around her wrist, he asked, “Selling yourself for a glimpse of the Obsidian Beaches? Can’t say I blame you. It’s the only way you’ll ever see them.”
She opened her mouth to fire a witty comeback, but nothing came. Her best lines always arrived an hour too late. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m headed to the end of the line.”
“The outer realm?” Doran drew back. “Why would you want to go
there
?”
“For a job,” she told him. “The offer came last week.”
In the lawless outer realm, mechanics like Solara were hard to come by. No one would care about the tattoos across her knuckles or the grease beneath her fingernails. She’d be revered as a goddess because settlers on the fringe planets appreciated skill over beauty. That was where she belonged, far from Houston’s overcrowded high-rise slums and the sweatshops that paid a few measly credits to those with the connections to get inside. She was going west, all the way to the edge of the charted territories, to a new terraform called Vega. Her benefits package included a whole acre of land, all to herself. She couldn’t wait to work that soil between her fingers and know that she owned it. Freedom, wealth, and security were right there, waiting for her.
All she needed was a ticket.
“But you can’t afford the fare,” Doran said, mostly talking to himself. “And the next trip to the outer realm isn’t for a year.”
“Two months,” she corrected.
“No, a year.” He smoothed a perfectly manicured hand over his dark hair, then took the opportunity to study his reflection in the nearby ticketing screen. “They’re scaling back because there’s no demand to visit the fringe planets. Only criminals end up there.” Raking his gaze over her, he added, “And vagrants.”
All the blood drained from Solara’s head.
A year?
Where would she live? How would she support herself? The nuns had practically danced a jig when she’d left because it freed up a bed for one of the teens sleeping on the cafeteria floor. Each day more abandoned kids appeared at the front gate, their parents having fled the scene in the world’s saddest game of hide-and-seek. The group home couldn’t afford to keep anyone past graduation. No exceptions. Even Sister Agnes, who’d been like a mother to Solara, had pressed a handheld stunner into her palm and shoved her out the gate.
The fringe is a dangerous place,
Agnes had said.
Keep this in your pocket.
Then she’d told Solara to go in peace and serve the Lord.
It was clear she wasn’t meant to return.
Doran brought her back to present company by tapping his chin and peering at her with new interest. “My usual valet is too sick to travel,” he said. “I can see that all the proper servants are taken, but you might do.” His upper lip curled in a way that made Solara want to hide her face. “I’d have to let you in my suite, but I guess I can live with that.”