Chapter 1

“Cargo aboard, sir. Freight lockers secure.”
“All of it stamped?”
“Just like it were legal.”
“Excellent. Knew I hired you for a reason.”
Haldis grinned. “Aye, captain.”
“Don’t be cheeky. Passengers?”
“Three cabins, sir.”
Kristoff rubbed his chin. He needed a shave. “Only three?”
“Wyatt was delayed, counting all those crates, so Corrigan stood as steward.”
“In that case, thank God for any passengers at all.”
“With your permission, captain, you haven’t met the passengers. You see the ugly looks they’re giving each other, you might not be so thankful.”
“How many times I have to tell you, Haldis? No paying customer is unattractive.” Kristoff shrugged. “Well, rarely unattractive. “
“Yeah. I mean, yes, captain.”
“About all this sir and captain stuff—”
“It’s for the passengers. Sir.”
Kristoff narrowed his eyes; still grinning, Haldis didn’t blink. Kristoff jerked his head toward the companionway. “Get below, boy, and hold on to something.”
Engines—beautiful things—quickened until their thunder became a deep-throated howl. No mortal song was sweet as this. It shuddered through the ship beneath his feet and along his bones, up his back, out his fingers, and hummed through his skull. Braced against the railing, Kristoff swayed as the Martina Vega spread her silver wings and lifted from her slip.
Each change in the rhythm and pitch told the story: queuing for departure, angling for trajectory, increasing speed, resisting the planet’s gravity, roaring through the atmosphere. Flying free in space.
The radio on his belt crackled. “Wide open, Kristoff.”
He unclipped the radio—old Earth tech, but it worked—and held down the broad grey button on the side. “Good hands, as always, Finney. Join you in five.”
“Aye—captain.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
Smiling, Kristoff stood a moment longer in the crow’s nest, a low-profile turret above the crew deck, and stared out into black, starlit space. He’d rather be here than anywhere.
Descending the ladder to the deck, he caught the low intense sounds of voices in muffled argument. Great. Corrigan and Wyatt, or Corrigan and Alerio, or Corrigan and anyone else.
No. From the next level down. The passenger cabins. Already?
He strode along the crew deck and clattered down the companionway, finger-combing his hair and tucking in his shirt as he went. Since negotiating for cargo, he hadn’t considered trivial things like a shower and a clean shirt. Hope nobody’s allergic to stink.
Down the last step, around a right angle, and he entered the passenger quarters.
Two men, faces red, stood nose to nose and chest to chest.
“Afternoon, gentlemen—”
“You will not speak to her, you will not look at her, you will not be in the same room with her—”
“She’s a free woman!”
“She’s mine!”
“She’s not a crate of cargo!”
“Gentlemen.” Kristoff gripped the men by their shoulders and smiled, not happily. “This is a freighter first and a pleasure cruiser a distant second, but we aim to serve our guests. We can’t do that if they don’t behave. Now, there’s a corner of the cargo deck where you can beat each other to a squishy pulp, but you will not block the passage, and my crew will not clean up your blood.”
The belligerent “owner” of the unnamed woman tried to pull away from Kristoff’s grasp, but without success. “Who are you?”
“Helmer Kristoff, captain of this fine vessel.”
“Fine vessel?” The idiot sneered. “More like a death trap.”
The lover grabbed the idiot by the shirtfront. “A death trap, and you brought her here anyway? You son of a—”
The idiot threw a punch. It landed poorly, skimming the other man’s cheek. The lover responded with a knee aimed at the groin.
Kristoff grabbed fistfuls of the combatants’ shirts, behind their necks, and dragged them along the passage, through the common room, through the guest galley—where he almost lost his grip on the struggling men—then down the companionway to the cargo deck, the idiot and the lover trading curses and half-landed blows, most of which struck Kristoff, if they struck anyone.
Corrigan looked up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Want help with that?”
“You can lock the cage, as soon as I toss ‘em in.”
Slapping his palm with a business-size wrench, Corrigan grinned.
The lover flailed at the idiot, who flailed back. Kristoff pushed them inside the cage. Just as Corrigan grabbed the door, Kristoff saw a blur out of the corner of his eye.
Pain exploded in his head. Comets and constellations whirled before him—then all was black space.