Starflight

  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

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  For Carey Corp, a brilliant brainstorming

  partner and an even better friend.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  What 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.”

  Before Solara could respond, Doran’s girlfriend made a noise of disgust and whined, “Come on, Dory. Not that one. She’s so…dirty.”

  Solara’s cheeks blazed. She’d taken great care to scrub her face at the public bathhouse that morning, even paying extra to have her hair washed and plaited in the latest style. “She is standing right here. And I’m not dirty.”

  Doran snapped his gaze to hers, his black brows forming a slash above blue eyes cold enough to frost the fiery moons of Volcanus. “Let’s get something straight, Rattail. If I agree to finance your passage, the only words that will leave your mouth for the next five months are Yes, Mr. Spaulding. If you disappoint me in any way—if my every wish is not brought to fruition—I’ll drop your carcass at the first outpost. Do you understand?”

  Solara held her breath while a furious pulse pounded in her ears. Five months as Doran’s slave or a year on the streets. Unpleasant as it was, the decision made itself.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Spaulding.”

  “That’s better. See?” he said to his girlfriend. “She can be trained.” He pointed at Solara’s wrist. “Where’s the matching band?”

  “You buy it from the machine,” Solara told him, nodding at the kiosk beside her.

  Once Doran transferred the credits to pay her fare, the gate opened with a beep and an M-emblazoned bracelet dropped into the collection tray. He slapped the band around his wrist, linking them as master and servant.

  “Quit standing there,” he said. “You can start by taking Miss DePaul’s bag.”

  But the girl—Miss DePaul, presumably—gripped the handle of her pet carrier with ten red-tipped fingers. “I don’t want her touching my things,” she declared, and clicked toward the boarding platform.

  Doran shrugged and handed Solara his tuxedo jacket. When they reached the boarding entry, he shouted, “The door, Rattail. Open the door!” She scrambled ahead of him and heaved aside the metal barrier. As Doran preceded her through the gateway, he murmured, “Well, you’re off to a poor start.”

  Solara clutched his jacket and resisted the urge to choke him with it. Maybe there was something worse than not being picked.

  The beeping awoke her from a dead sleep, but in her foggy state, Solara couldn’t tell where it was coming from. She scanned the darkness for the source of the awful sound until a pillow arched up from the bottom bunk and smacked her in the face.

  “Turn off your band!” hissed one of her roommates.

  Understanding dawned, and Solara tapped the Accept button on her bracelet. By now, she should be used to Doran’s constant requests. The sadistic jerk hadn’t allowed her a full night’s rest since they’d boarded the Zenith a month ago, so he wasn’t likely to start now.

  “He’s ruining my sleep,” another roommate whispered. “Why does he keep torturing you?”

  That was a good question.

  Solara pulled on a pair of pants and thought about it. The obvious answer was his white-knuckled hold on a grudge from freshman year, the urge to put her back in “her place” after she’d won his father’s award. But aside from that, sometimes she wondered if Doran craved attention. He reminded her of a boy in the group home who used to pull her hair. When she’d complained to the nuns, they had brushed off her concerns, claiming that the boy liked her. But she didn’t enjoy having her hair pulled, so she’d put a stop to it by sinking her fist into the boy’s stomach.

  Maybe that was what Doran needed.

  After wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she slipped quietly into the hallway and waited for the motion-sensor night-lights to activate. Soon a thin strip glowed in the middle of the floor. She knew from experience it would take 872 steps to reach Doran’s first-class suite from her position in the steerage class level, so she didn’t waste another moment getting there. The last time she’d waited too long to respond, he’d fallen asleep, only to summon her an hour later to pull a clean shirt from his walk-in closet. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he hated small spaces. It made her want to lock him inside a luggage trunk.

  She knocked softly on his door. Most valets had key fob access programmed into their indenture bands, but of course Doran didn’t trust her enough for that.

  Once the door slid into the wall, she stepped inside his suite and immediately stopped short to survey the damage. He’d hosted another party. The empty bottles littering the carpet made that clear. Someone had overturned the sofa and rearranged the furniture in what appeared to be a tic-tac-toe grid, and
naturally she would have to clean it up. But that couldn’t be why he’d called her in the middle of the night.

  Or could it?

  She slid a glare toward his bedroom but refused to go in there. If the lingering scent of Miss DePaul’s perfume was any indication, he wasn’t alone.

  “Did you need something?” Solara shouted.

  Doran’s voice was sleep-roughened when he demanded, “Excuse me?”

  She closed her eyes and drew a slow breath. “How may I assist you, Mr. Spaulding?”

  “I’ve got insomnia,” he said. “So I might as well make use of it and get some work done for my internship. Come in here and take notes for me.”

  Solara didn’t move.

  It was one thing to fetch a T-shirt from his closet, but spending time with Doran inside his bedroom—in the middle of the night? Not for all the fuel in all the ore refineries in all four quadrants of the galaxy.

  A rustling of blankets sounded from the other room, followed by a heavy sigh. “Stay there,” he grumbled. “I’ll get dressed and come to you. But for future reference, anyone who stinks like a toolshed is safe from my advances.”

  Frowning, Solara lifted a lock of hair to her nose. She’d spent an hour touring the auxiliary engine room yesterday, but she didn’t smell like grease. At least, she didn’t think so.

  He padded into the living room wearing a dark bathrobe that concealed everything but his bare feet. “Feel safer now?”

  She answered, “Yes, Mr. Spaulding,” and meant it for once.

  Doran turned an armchair upright and plopped into it, not bothering to create a seat for her. He flicked a wrist toward the opposite wall. “You’ll find a tablet on the desk. I assume you know how to transcribe, considering all the years the headmaster let you spend at my school.”

  Jaw clenched, she nodded.

  “I’ll dictate from my…” He trailed off as a trio of lines wrinkled his forehead. “Damn it. Where’s my data file?” Without giving her a chance to guess, he made a shooing motion with one hand. “I’ll have to find it. Wait in the hall. I don’t want you to see where I keep my valuables.”