CHAPTER 17

R idged metal flooring digs into my bare feet as I stumble down the dimly lit hall.

Stumble. I’m glitching again.

My ears don’t ring this time, but I know my aural mods are offline because I don’t hear the faint sound of music, don’t hear Mitchell’s footsteps pounding after me.

And he must be coming after me.

I’m not stupid enough to think he cares about my feelings. But there’s no way he’s going to let me get away with keeping the drugs.

God, he let me kiss him out of pity.

Let me crawl all over him like a disease.

And for a moment I thought that he wanted me.

A wave of dizziness slams into my head and knocks me to the floor. I catch myself with one palm, curling the other hand in a fist against my chest to protect the glass vial and its precious contents. My vision goes black.

I blink. Blink. Blink the blackness to blurred, dim colour. I blink the blur into focus. Blood drenches the ridged metal floor under my palm and knees. Dark red, glistening in the ribbon of night-lighting that edges the base of the curved wall. Am I bleeding?

I raise my eyes. Footprints trail from the edges of the glistening pool and disappear around the curve of the hallway. Bloody, Mary-Jane-shaped footprints.

It’s not real.

It’s all in my head.

It’s not not not real.

My mind just needs to regurgitate the truth sometimes; it gets so sick of the lies slipping off my tongue.

Gold.

Gold.

Fool’s gold.

Slipping off my t-t-t-tongue.

I need to slip in the blood sometimes, to remember.

I need to get away from Mitchell. But if I follow those footprints around the corner, will Grandfather be there with a bullet hole in his forehead? Will Grandmother’s body slump against the curved corridor wall? Will I nestle my cheek against the warm bosom I once ran to for comfort, and find it still? Find it silent? Find it ruptured by a ragged round hole?

T-t-t-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap . If I tap my finger on the bloody floor, can I make her heart beat again? S-s-slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap . If I slap my palm in the sticky wet, can I slap away the steady—stupid steady— stupid steady heartbeat that made me feel safe? No one’s heart beats that true. No one, no one, no one tells the truth.

We’re all bleeding

bleeding

haemorrhaging liquid gold lies.

I lift my palm from the bloody floor. I lift my palm and stare. My wrist is cut. Cut deep. It’s gushing gold. Gold spurts over my blood-wet palm. Gold drowns the red-puddled hallway. Gold hides the blood. Gold makes it glitter. It’s a work of art. How lovely.

My veins are dry dry dry desert roads. Nothing left to bleed. My tongue is dry dry dry paper on the roof of my mouth, not a drop of golden spittle to dribble.

I’m a shrunken corpse in the Wastes.

Gild my bones. Put me on display. I’m a work of art. How lovely.

How dry inside.

Something hard in my fist. Something hard against my bloodless, squeezed-out heart. I uncurl bone-dry fingers.

Water.

Water in a vial. Water in the Wastes. An oasis of moonlight. I twist-twist-twist off the tiny black stopper and gulp gulp gulp liquid silver. An antidote to all those golden lies.

I’m floating.

Floating on starlight .

Rising on a silver-tipped wave.

The blood is washed away.

I blink.

There was blood?

Not here. Not floating down a moonbeam hallway.

It curves like a silver rainbow.

It snakes like a shimmering river.

Like a snake with a sweet poison bite.

A door hisses.

A man emerges.

A snake smirks.

“Hey, DJ Girl.”

…

“You okay, DJ Girl?”

...

“Shit, Gemma, are you using?”

I lower my eyelids like a serpent. I look up through the shade of thick lashes. I coil my fist in a cotton t-shirt. Wind my body around his. Snake my tongue into his mouth.

Hiss, slide. I pull him into the shower.

“Oh, fuck yes.”

Hiss, slide. The door closes.

Hiss, slide. Clothes slither to the floor.

Hisssssss , we slam into the shower controls.

Hisssssss , water rains down .

Hisssssss , I don’t know who I am.

“Oh, fuck yessssssss.”

-X-

I’m naked on the wet floor.

Soaked.

Soaked in liquid silver moonlight, already fading back to gold.

It never hides the lies long enough.

Never enough.

Never—

“Time to sleep it off, DJ Girl.”

I’m lifted to standing.

I’m towelled off.

A T-shirt slips over my head.

Hiss, slide.

I’m pulled through a door.

Hiss, slide.

A man with green-brown eyes.

Those eyes…

I need to get away. Down the hall. Down the—

“Gemma…”

The green eyes are ice.

I need to —

“Tell me she didn’t take it all herself. Tell me you used, too.”

In Green Eyes’ palm, an empty vial.

“Fuck. DJ Girl, how much did you take?”

I need to—

“Gemma, say something.”

I need—

“DJ Girl, can you hear me?”

Need—need to—

My arm is lifted. Falls. Slaps my side.

“She’s limp.”

My hand is held.

“Her nails are blue.”

It’s not safe—not safe—not—

“Shouldn’t her mods—?”

“She’s glitching. Six months with no updates—”

Safe is down down down down.

“God, she’s overdosing.”

“Fuck.”

I’m floating.

Hiss, slide.

“—naloxone—”

Hiss, slide.

“—injection—”

A snake bites .

Hisssssss, slide.

-X-

A blunt, bloodthirsty hammer pounds my head. My mouth is dry. I groan and curl into a ball on my side, the cool, smooth cushion a small relief against my throbbing temple.

“What the hell were you thinking?” The deep voice slams in through my ear and ricochets back and forth inside my head like a pinball, brutalizing my already bruised skull. “Just tell me what the hell you were thinking.”

I curl tighter. I don’t want to answer. I don’t—

“Oh, come off it, Mitchell. You’re a man. You have eyes. Look at that body . Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same if that body pulled you into the shower.”

“ That is not a body.” Mitchell takes a slow, deep breath, obviously attempting to dampen the barely controlled rage I can hear in his voice. Rage that’s not aimed at me, after all. He’s angry at Vince. Angry at him for—? “ She is a woman. A girl . An underage girl.”

Oh. Muddled memories pool like blood inside my aching mind. I’m the body. I’m the girl. I pulled Vince into the shower.

Shame adds to the nausea that’s already rising like acid, eating at my stomach .

“Underage for a week. For one fucking week.” Vince’s tone has gone from flippant to annoyed. “Don’t blame your blue balls on me, Captain Holier-Than-Thou. It’s not my fault you’ve got a stick so far up your ass you can’t stoop to shove your dick in a pussy begging for co—”

There’s a growl. A metallic thud so loud it sends my head throbbing again.

I don’t want to look, but I force my eyes open. Light stabs my brain, causing the blunt hammer pounding my head to morph into a sharp, gouging ice-pick. Past the ragged hem of my T-shirt, my bare legs curl on a curved white sofa. I’m in the lounge.

I squint at the scene beyond. Mitchell has Vince slammed up against the wall near the dining table—Oh God, the same kitchen where Mitchell told me I’d mistaken a compliment for a blade. The same wall where Vince pinned me and kissed me… what? A night ago?

Vince is right. I’m nothing but a pussy begging for cock. An addict looking to score my next hit.

I want to vomit.

Mitchell leans toward the bounty hunter, fist twisted in his shirt. “She was high out of her goddamn mind, you worthless piece of holding-tank scum.”

Vince thrusts his jaw forward. “So what?”

“So how the hell was she in any state to consent? ”

Vince isn’t fighting back but his eyes are blazing like he wants to. “Why the fuck does it matter? She’s not a goddamn vestal virgin, Mitchell. She might look sweet and innocent, but trust me, it’d be quicker to count the nobles under thirty that girl hasn’t fucked than to count all the ones she has.”

“How is that relevant?” Mitchell practically spits the words in Vince’s face, jerking the fist twisted in the bounty hunter’s shirt so his body tugs away from the wall then slams back hard enough to leave a dent. Vince’s fists clench. One side of his lip curls up in a dangerous smirk.

I force my fuzzy vision to focus on the bounty hunter. Take in his loose but ready posture. The goading gleam in his eye.

He wants to tangle with Mitchell. He’s trying to bait the captain into throwing the first punch.

Fuck.

This is all my fault.

I’ve got to put a stop to this before Vince either gets himself so beat up we can’t do the job, or wins the fight and decommissions the only man who can fly us off this festering poison pit of a planet.

I peel my cheek from the pleather cushion. My vision swims as I sit up. I swallow down bile. “How is what I do with my body either of your business?” I rasp.

Both men swing around to face me.

“Gemma. ”

“DJ Girl.”

I glare from one relieved face to the other, cheeks flaming, head pounding. “Look, I’m an idiot, okay? I’m a slutty, drug-addicted idiot who didn’t stop to consider that maybe swallowing a vial of Delirium when her poison mods are failing wasn’t the best idea.”

Mitchell starts toward me. “Gemma, that’s not—”

I hold up a palm and cut him off, the sudden softness in his voice only making me angrier. “I don’t need a knight in shining armour to defend my honour. I think it’s been clearly established that I have none.”

My eyes move to Vince. “And I don’t need my piece-of-shit employer to get in a fistfight over what he did or didn’t have a right to do with me while I was high.” I’m almost as angry at Vince as I am at the captain. Vince may have been goading Mitchell, but some part of him must believe what he said about me. And no matter how right he is, it hurts. “I just want to forget everything that happened last night, swallow a mountain of painkillers, and go help Ballga with the engines so we can all get the hell off this rock and go our separate ways as soon as humanly possible. Sound good to everyone?”

Words burst from both men at once, but I don’t know or care what they have to say. I rise, sway, steady myself. A glass of water waits on the oval coffee table. I chug it, then make for the door .

I wish I could spite them with a smooth exit, but I don’t think I’m walking straight. The floor tilts like it’s the deck of a boat off the choppy coast of Varus Beach instead of the floor of a grounded spacecraft.

This is more than just the aftereffects of Delirium. My mods are in rough shape.

-X-

When I finally make it to the engine room, Ballga’s bent over the workbench taking a read of viable component levels in the light drive fluid that’s been recycling overnight. She lowers her sensor from the bubbling receiving flask and stands. Slitted cat eyes take me in, and the way they seem to glow, I can tell Ballga’s in Lioness mode.

“How’re the levels?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral. Maybe she got wind of last night, or maybe she’s just grouchy because she didn’t get a chance to slash any tracheas with her teeth this morning.

“Fine.” Ballga’s gravelly voice is flat. “If everything continues as expected, the engines will be back online tomorrow.” Her eyes don’t move off me for a second.

“Okay,” I say tentatively. I reach up to the collar of the faded blue jumpsuit I found wrinkled but clean in the drying machine. I tug the zipper down past my collar bone, drag it back up. Tug it down, drag it up. Down, up. “So, uh, I’ll get started testing the other batch and—”

“You won’t be needed in the engine room today, Rich Girl.”

“But… but I want to help. It’s my fault we’re here, and I want to—”

“You’re right.” Ballga prowls toward me, and I swear the hackles on the back of her neck rise. “It is your fault we’re here. This whole mess is your fault. And I don’t care what you want.”

Okay. That last comment definitely had a double meaning. I take a less-than-graceful step back, bumping into another worktable. Glass clinks and tools rattle on their hooks. “I—”

“After what you did for Sam yesterday, I want to believe you have the capacity for good intentions. So I’ll say this to you nicely, just once.” Her yellow gaze bores into me. “Stay away from the captain. He’s built a new life for himself. He’s got a kid under his care. He doesn’t need your drama.”

“What do you—?”

“Don’t play stupid, girl.” Ballga’s raised voice is like a whip crack to my aching head. “I may not be human, but Tileah know better than anyone when two males are gearing to go head to head over a female.” She tugs off a glove. “I don’t know if you’re playing Mitchell to get the other male’s attention, if you’re working some con, or if you actually have the gall to believe you are mate material.” She tugs off her other glove and throws the pair on the bench. Her claws are not retracted. Shit. “In case you’re that deluded, let me make it perfectly clear. You are a walking disaster. You are not mate material for Mitchell.”

I wince. Clearly she’s misreading the signals. Captain Perfect has zero interest in me. But I don’t have the energy to argue. “I get the message. I’m a piece of shit not worthy to be flushed down your precious captain’s sacrosanct toilet.”

Ballga’s expression softens ever so slightly. “That’s not what I said. You’re not worthless, you’re just… broken. Mitchell’s got enough broken to last anyone a lifetime. He needs to feel like he’s redeeming himself. He needs to focus on his work. He doesn’t need an unstable female dragging drama into his life.”

My pounding head and I are so done with this conversation. “I have no intention of seducing your captain or whatever the hell you think I’m up to. I just want to get the light drive fluid finished so we can get to Oralia. If you don’t want my help, I’ll get out of your fur and let you work in peace.”

“I sincerely hope that’s the truth.” Ballga pads so close she’s centimetres from my face, and I’m backed against a worktable with nowhere to go, craning my neck to look up at the much-taller female. “But just in case, there’s one more thing you should know about Tileah. We protect our families. And Mitchell and Sam—they’re family.” Ballga takes my chin between her thumb and a curled forefinger. Her touch is gentle, but the threat is clear. The claws that barely graze my skin now could rip my throat out with one swipe. “I will protect them like I’d protect my own blood, so if you want to do what’s good for your health, you won’t play games in my den.”