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  “You the ship’s cook?”

  “Sometimes.” He grinned easily.

  She sensed he might be toying with her, but his tone stayed even, almost playful. If any of his previous hostility was still there, he’d buried it so deep she could no longer discern it. So either he was much better at hiding his feelings than she’d assumed, or he’d faked the previous anger, or he’d put whatever had been bothering him behind him. She didn’t know him well enough to venture a guess. “What’s your job when you aren’t the cook?”

  “Most of the time . . . I’m the captain.”

  “Oh.” What was going on here? Ships’ captains didn’t cook. But as astonishing as his willingness to cook was, it didn’t explain that fortune in salt sitting out as if it were no more valuable than the pepperite beside it. “Forgive me if my question is awkward or personal.”

  “It’s all right. You’re free now. Ask whatever you like.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know your customs and don’t wish to insult.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  She really wanted to know why he’d been so angry with her before, but didn’t dare ask for fear she might annoy him all over again. And she much preferred this casual conversation and his easy smile to his snapping questions at her while he glared. “How come you don’t consider cooking beneath your status?”

  He shrugged and broke the eggs into a bowl. “Cooking’s honest work. No different than mining salt. Or captaining this ship.”

  She recalled the calluses on his hands and considered the hard labor he must still do. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I can explain.” He beat the eggs in the bowl. Poured in milk. “Zor is different from Rama. We didn’t come here to be free only to succumb to the same social stratification. Work is work. Who is to say what kind of work is more meaningful or valuable? The important thing is to do a task as well as one can. Mining salt for our people doesn’t only provide a good living, it allows me to help our people. But I also like to cook. I really like the idea of cooking your first meal as a free woman.”

  “Thank you.” Her gaze returned to the salt. He must have caught a glimpse of her staring. His voice actually turned gentle. “Salt is still precious to us. Like the air we need to breathe. And the water that we drink.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “Relax.”

  She slid into a seat at the table. “Salt is so common that you don’t have to lock it up?”

  “We didn’t find much salt on Zor itself. But the asteroids have plenty.”

  “Getting it to Zor must be difficult.”

  “Working in space can be a challenge. However, the planet is a gravity well. We shove the salt loads through the portal, and gravity does the rest until the braking systems kick in.”

  “So you live on this ship?”

  “I nest on Alpha One.” He poured the eggs into a hot greased pan. “Onions and cheese?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “The onions we grow in hydroponics are sweeter than those from Rama.” He diced them and sprinkled cheese on top.

  “What’s Alpha One?”

  “It’s the asteroid where I first found salt. The mine gave out years ago, and I turned the caves into my house. Filed a homestead on Zor and have a century lease.” While he spoke warmly about Alpha One, he’d said house. Not home. The subtle difference in meaning warned her she might be on a touchy subject. So did the pride and isolation rising around him. He sprinkled salt and pepperite on the eggs, then flipped them over. “Alpha One has a spectacular view of Mount Crion.” He gestured to a holopic of a stark landscape amid a backdrop of stars. The imposing mountain sparkled with silver and green iridescence, with not a plant or structure in sight.

  She suppressed a shiver. “You live there alone?”

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he spoke gently. “Not too many women like the idea of having to clear an airlock before going outside. So the boys and I journey down-gravity to Zor for socializing.”

  “And saving me and my crew shortened your party time?” The scent of the onions frying made her mouth water. He set a glass of yellow juice in front of her, then waited expectantly for her to taste it. She picked it up and sniffed. The crisp scent of citrus had her eager for a sip. Lifting the glass, she swirled it, then took a swallow and enjoyed the burst of flavor on her tongue. “Delicious.”

  He grinned. “We’ve found lots of new food and drinks on Zor. The variety keeps the farmers busy. However, it was tough at first. If not for our alliance with Earth, we might not have survived. They sent seeds and tools through the portal—until Rama shut it down.”

  She knew her history—at least from the Raman viewpoint. After the slave revolt, Rama’s Firsts blasted apart the portal that the slaves had used to escape to Zor, preventing all other slaves from trying to follow. Shortly thereafter, they’d closed the Earth–Zor portal, too. But even during the short time the planet-to-planet portals had been open, the slaves had only been able to take with them to the new world what they could carry in their hands.

  If Raman spies hadn’t sent back secret reports, she would have expected a primitive planet. But Earth must have helped them a lot. Clearly, Rama’s most industrious slaves had escaped, and they’d thrived on Zor. They’d built cities. A spaceport. If they weren’t a threat to her home, she might have been proud of their accomplishments.

  But they’d founded this world on the blood of her parents. And too many others like them. As long as Zor survived, a tempting source of freedom, other slaves would try to revolt and follow. Six days before she’d left Rama, before another uprising could be quelled, the slaves had massacred ten Firsts. Such violence could not be tolerated.

  Now these slaves had more precious salt than their former masters. No First she’d ever known had displayed salt on a table. If they had that kind of wealth, they locked it up in a vault. So despite her attempt not to gawk, the salt attracted her gaze like magnetite. And she eased into the next topic, careful not to reveal more knowledge than a Raman slave would have.

  “I heard a rumor that if we increase our salt intake, we actually develop Quait.”

  “It’s true.”

  At his admission, she pretended surprise. Her mission would be easier if she could get him to reveal things she already knew but wasn’t supposed to know. There would be less chance of her slipping up that way. Less chance of someone questioning how she’d come by her knowledge.

  He turned his head from the stove and met her gaze, his mood serious. “But you’ll never have the power to rival a First.”

  Little did he know. But she hid the thought down deep. “Why not?”

  “Lack of proper nutrients during childhood stunted us for life. But you must also understand that although we can develop some Quait, we also have laws that limit our salt intake.”

  “You do?” She frowned at him. “Why? If salt is plentiful, why not eat as much as you want? Become as strong as you can?”

  “Because we don’t want to become like them.” Venom and horror and viciousness colored his tone. As if being a First committed one to monsterdom.

  She didn’t have to fake widening her eyes. She’d assumed all escaped slaves would want Quait, to be as powerful as Firsts, and here was another clue that her training might not have been as complete as her instructors had believed. “You’ve never dreamed what it would be like to dominate others with your will?”

  He flipped the eggs onto her plate. His eyes burned as bright as the sun. His voice remained whispery soft. Dangerous. His tone strong and true without a hint of deception. “No one should have that kind of power over another.”

  She chose her words with care, wanting his take, but careful not to reveal her own. “Rama would fall apart without their slaves.”

 
He shot her a you-know-better look, but his tone remained mild. “Oh, I think not. It’s human instinct to survive. If all the slaves on Rama left, the Firsts would have to do their own labor. Or pay others to do it.”

  She hoped to God that never happened. If the slaves revolted en masse, she doubted they’d leave any survivors behind. And even if the Firsts lived, she didn’t believe they would adapt very easily—if at all. After her normal childhood, her life had been hard. Adjusting had been difficult. If instead, she’d been a pampered adult thrown into a slave’s life, adjusting wouldn’t have been just miserable, but impossible. It had been hard enough to adapt as a teenager but as an adult . . . no, she couldn’t even imagine it.

  She returned to his earlier statement, another that required explanation. “So no one on Zor eats enough salt to develop their Quait?”

  “With one exception.”

  How interesting. Her training had so many gaps. She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “My brother had to eat enough salt to open the portal from Earth to Zor. His Quait developed to a higher level than the law allows, but our government has given him amnesty.”

  Her eyes widened. “Your brother’s Cade Archer?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “He’s a legend on Rama.” And all Firsts cursed him for freeing the slaves. “Mothers tell their children stories of his courage, of his daring. Of his great feats.” If she could hand over Cade Archer to the authorities, she’d become a legend, too. However, becoming famous had never been her goal. She’d settle for justice. “But we were told that he’d died from eating too much salt.”

  “That’s a lie. He’s fine. In fact, he’s touring the unexplored third continent on Zor with his wife, on a second honeymoon.”

  “With the Earth woman?”

  “Her name is Shara.” Admiration warmed his tone. He handed her a fork, a napkin, and pushed the salt toward her. “Eat.”

  She lifted the salt shaker, holding it with reverence. She peered at the eight tiny holes at the top that would release the grains of salt. “Suppose too much comes out? If I eat too much and break your laws . . . what would happen to me?”

  “Banishment to the second continent. But don’t worry about it. Your body’s been deprived for so long you couldn’t possibly go over your legal allotment in just a few meals. It takes a great deal of salt over many days to affect Quait.”

  Her gaze zinged from him to the salt and back. “Still . . . I cannot pay—”

  “You are a guest. Eat before your eggs grow cold.”

  With a trembling hand, she turned the shaker upside down and shook. “What of my crew?”

  “They weren’t as strong as you and are still recovering. Doctor Falcon is monitoring them in our sick ward.”

  Very carefully, she placed the salt shaker back in the middle of the table and used the pepperite. “After I eat, I’d like permission to check on them.”

  “Certainly.”

  He had made no eggs for himself, and she hesitated as she lifted the fork to her mouth, needing to make sure they had plenty of food aboard and she wasn’t ingesting his ration. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I ate before you awakened. We have plenty, if that’s what is worrying you. Please, our rules here are simple. Eat while it’s hot.”

  “But you didn’t sleep, did you?”

  “No.”

  “How come?” She scooped egg onto her utensil, lifted the food toward her lips. And inhaled. The delicious scent made her stomach growl, and she placed the first bite between her lips. A delicate flavor of egg, salt, and pepperite tingled on her tongue. “Mmm. This is so good.”

  “Your pod’s chronometer said you slept in suspended life for six days. So of course, you’re hungry. Did I make enough, or will you require more?” He placed a basket of fresh bread and a choice of either a reddish jam or rich butter before her. And by her left hand, he set a hot cup of whai tea, the pungent aroma immediately recognizable.

  “This is plenty. Thank you.” She filled her belly, surprised that when they lapsed into silence, it was no longer awkward or tense. While most people liked to chat during a meal, she didn’t. Taking a breather allowed her to savor her food and relax. After she’d emptied her plate and sipped the last of the whai, he cleared the dishes and placed them into an auto clean.

  “You were going to tell me more about Zor,” she reminded him.

  “Why don’t we talk and walk at the same time. You wanted to see your crew?”

  “Yes, please.” When she stood and waited for him to lead the way, his com link chimed.

  He raised his wrist toward his mouth. “Derrek here.”

  “Boss man, we got company,” a male voice said.

  “What kind of company, Sauren?”

  “Adain’s been unable to identify them. The two ships are running silent and won’t answer his hail.”

  “Cavin, what’s their heading?”

  “Straight at us.”

  “ETA?”

  “Two micronbits. It’s like they burst out of hyper-space right on top of us and are spoiling for a fight.”

  “Benet, juice up the engines.”

  “I’m already on it. But we need eight micronbits to reach max power.”

  “Understood. I’ll be on the bridge in two.” Derrek changed direction and fired a thoughtful look her way. “Any chance you were followed?”

  The idea startled her. The Firsts had intended for her to escape, so what would have been the point? But she pretended not to know that and to think over his question, even as her nerves rewound into knots. “No one was around when we abandoned ship. But even if the Ramans picked up our distress signal, I hardly think they’d bother tailing us. We just aren’t that important.”

  “Of course, you are,” he disagreed. “If you made it, other slaves will try to follow. I’m thinking they want you back. To prove escape is impossible.”

  His guess was more correct than she could say. While her mission was to appear to be a fugitive slave and escape to Zor, it seemed a waste of life and effort that tranqed Firsts would round up her crew, send them back to Rama, and execute them as a political statement.

  She understood the logic, but the idea of Firsts bringing Rak, Micoo, and Jadlan back in chains, possibly executing their innocent families alongside them, made her sick. Her crew mistakenly believed they had no families. They’d told her so. Because if they’d had family, they wouldn’t have risked the escape.

  To discourage escape attempts, Firsts didn’t just execute the guilty slave—they used their Quait to force the slaves to kill every surviving family member. The practice was rarely enforced, and the severity of the consequences kept the peace.

  Except—all of her crew had family members they didn’t know about. Half brothers and sisters. A father. Even a daughter. After birth slaves were sent to crèches run by the state. So they had no way of knowing if they had family—except from official records—which had been altered.

  According to Azsla’s mission plan, her escaped crew was going nowhere. Tranqed Firsts had orders to round up her crew and send them back to Rama in chains, reunite the family members—who didn’t even know one another—and then make her crew kill them before they themselves died a painful death.

  This just couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not this quick. When she’d reported to Rama that they’d had to abandon ship, the military must have intercepted her message to the Corps and sent ships to investigate. Now that the Raman military had spied Beta Five, neither side could afford to let the other return to their home base with information. Likely the Corps hadn’t informed the military about Azsla’s mission. In fact, her mission was so secret other members of the Corps weren’t kept in the loop. So the First ruthless military no doubt thought she was an escaped slave and wouldn’t hesitate to fi
re on them. Their reputation stabbed a sliver of fear into her heart.

  A male voice shot through the com link at Derrek’s wrist. “Captain, we just received an ultimatum.”

  “From whom?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “A First by the name of Tomar is demanding we turn over the Ramans to them . . . or die.”

  Tomar? Azsla recalled the name, the stories about him. Although they’d never met, she hated him for his needless cruelty. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Anything useful?”

  “He’s vicious. And incredibly tenacious.” He’d applied to the Corps but had been refused admission because of his inability to follow orders. The man had a reputation for brutal and ruthless behavior, and the Corps psych analysts hadn’t believed he’d ever learn to control his emotions and Quait, never mind suppress them. But their military had happily accepted him, and he’d quickly moved up through the ranks. “Tomar’s family was especially evil—even for a First. During the revolt, slaves responded in kind. He was badly burned, and his face remains scarred. It’s said that even his own children fear him.”

  “Arm forward weapons,” Derrek ordered.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Derrek’s voice remained calm, as if imminent attack from the pitiless commander was an everyday occurrence. “Can we outrun them?”

  “I don’t know,” Adain said. “Our aft weapons aren’t on line yet. This was supposed to be a shakedown cruise, remember?”

  “Yeah. Well, we’re about to see what she’s got.” Derrek broke into a grin, and she couldn’t help thinking that he’d never sounded happier—like a child with a new toy. She followed him to the bridge, her heart whacking out, praying that the beautiful Beta Five could protect these people who were willing to risk their lives for her and her crew. She wished they could outrun the other ships and avoid a confrontation. She didn’t want Derrek’s people to die in a fight that wasn’t theirs. But her crew didn’t deserve what awaited them if they surrendered, either. They didn’t. Their escape had hurt no one. And surely Rama could lose a handful of slaves without missing their minor contribution, couldn’t they?