CHAPTER 9

“I have good news and bad news.”

I start when I hear Ballga’s gravelly voice at the lounge door, dropping my purple fruit in the sink with a wet plop.

The lights of the ship flickered back on around sunset, and we all knew that meant Ballga must be done working on the light drive for the day. We’ve been hanging in the lounge, everyone quiet and a little on edge, for half an hour, waiting to hear news. Judging by the damp fur slicked back along her face, and the towel she’s rubbing over her exposed furry forearms, Ballga must have showered before coming to report.

Mitchell and Sam have been hunched over an edu-tablet working on a math problem—apparently besides training him to navigate a ship, Mitchell’s also homeschooling the kid—but they straighten and look Ballga’s way with interest.

With Granny Cat leaning in the doorway in her bathrobe and Mitchell coaching Sam through schoolwork, I feel like an unwanted guest intruding on the intimacies of a family. Which, I guess, is exactly what I am.

To my right, Tori shifts uncomfortably like she’s feeling the same. Vince, lounging on a sofa with one arm hooked over the backrest and a flask raised to his lips, looks as careless as ever. The lack of his usual teasing, though, makes me think he’s more on edge than he lets on.

“Good news first!” Sam grins and scoots away from his tablet, obviously glad for the excuse to abandon his studies.

Ballga folds her towel over a brindle-and-grey arm. She gives the kid a tired half-smile, then looks to Mitchell. “The good news is, it’s reparable.”

Mitchell lets out a relieved sigh.

Vince lowers his flask. “Thank fuck.”

Ballga glares his way, yellow eyes trained on him. “The bad news is, it’ll take four days to distill and re-ionize the solution with the components we have on hand.” Her gaze flicks from Vince to Tori, then to me, wearing a resigned grimace that adds the unspoken, so we’re stuck with these delinquents until then.

“You’re the best mechanic in the Federation!” Sam slams into Ballga and throws his arms around her waist.

She ruffles his hair. “Not a chemist, though, or we might be out of here sooner. Never thought I’d have to distill my own light drive fluid.”

I hesitate, then take a tentative step forward. “I could help.”

I feel weirdly shy offering. I’m confident in my chemistry skills. But being outed as a fugitive—and knowing I’m in the wrong—makes me worry about further stepping on toes. Still, if it gets us to Oralia and out of the crew’s hair faster, I should do what I can, for our sake and for theirs .

Ballga looks me up and down, from blue hair to navel piercing, before she rests her cat eyes on my drug-stained irises. She lets out a dismissive snort. “What’re you going to do, con the engines into working for us?”

I roll my eyes and return to my fruit. So much for trying to help. I mutter a string of curses under my breath as I rinse the fruit’s waxy purple skin, then smack the thing down on the counter harder than necessary.

As I grab a kitchen knife and slice a thin layer from the head-sized monstrosity, Tori puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t let her get to you, Gee.”

“I’m not,” I huff. People make a lot of assumptions about me, and I usually encourage them to think what they want. If they jump to their own conclusions, they won’t suspect the truth. “If Ballga wants to waste days on the roundabout distillation route, let her.”

I have my own interests to look to, anyway. Starting with this scrumptious beauty. I lift the thin slice of fruit to my mouth, watching reddish-purple juice dribble down my fingers.

“You sure you want to risk that?” Mitchell’s eyeing me from his place at the table.

God, no one gives me any credit.

I shoot him a defiant look, then run my tongue along the smooth, cool sliver of fruit, licking up its gloriously tangy liquid. My eyes drift closed, and I allow myself a minute to revel in the freshness of the flavour before I recommence my glaring at the overprotective captain. “If it’s poisonous, my mods will take care of it.”

Besides the usual immune system mods that aid everyone who can afford them with rapid antibody production, I have the less common addition of rapid antidote synthesizers. When exposed to a small amount of a toxin, my body kicks out proteins to counteract any potentially harmful effects. All I have to do is lick, wait, and I’m immune within minutes. When your family’s a prime target for attempted poisoning, it’s kind of a must.

Sam eyes the fruit from his place at Ballga’s side, looking eager. “Can I have some?”

“Sorry, bud, not all of us are as lucky as Miss Gemma,” Mitchell says. “You have to be born into money to sport those kinds of modifications.”

I turn back to Mitchell and I’m really glaring now. “Like you aren’t lab-born yourself, Mr. Big-Muscles-and-Pretty-Eyes. I saw how you handled the ship earlier. And the way you moved in the woods. I’d bet my burn-blade you’re more heavily modded than I am.”

“But unlike you, Rich Girl, I earned my mods.”

What the hell? Could this guy be any more self-righteous? It’s not like I chose to be born into a family that routinely attempts to poison each other. There’s no use responding to Captain Perfect, so I address Sam instead. “You have spare fuel grade-paper in the engine room? And a first aid supply with a blood, urine, and saliva test kit?”

Sam’s face lights up. He hoots, then jogs past Ballga and out the door in search of the requested supplies.

Ballga’s pupils narrow. As I rifle through kitchen drawers in a huff, searching out the other items I’ll need, she slides into the banquette and whispers to Mitchell about the dangers of “trusting some degenerate upper-crust runaway with Sam’s safety.”

I grit my teeth against the urge to turn and blast her with a long list of my chemistry credentials. Legit classes aren’t exactly the place where I learned the little trick I’m about to teach Sam.

Before I found Delirium, I experimented with poisons. I developed my own method for testing the toxicity of various substances, finding ways to induce a high before my mods could kick in to counteract the effects. It’ll work for testing food as well.

I grab a saucer and a mismatched creamer from an upper cupboard.

Tori winces as I slam them down on the counter. She’s picking up my frustration. I take a deep breath. “Sorry, Tor, I’ll rein it in.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s just my mods. They’ve been acting up.”

Anxiety laces her tone. I close the cupboard door and shoot her a questioning look. “What do you mean? ”

She turns so she’s facing the room and leans back, resting rosy elbows on the countertop. Her eyes flick to Ballga and Mitchell, but they seem absorbed in their discussion.

Tori speaks softly, so that only I can hear. “It’s like I’m bouncing from one extreme to the other. Sometimes I’m picking up nothing, no emotion from anyone, just dead air. I have to strain to read people’s expressions like someone who’s losing their hearing would strain to read lips.” Her neon eyebrows push together with worry. “Other times my sensitivity spikes, and I’m picking up emotions so strong I can’t think straight.”

“I got dizzy earlier,” I whisper. “I actually tripped. I think it’s all this time off-grid. We’ve gone over six months without mod updates.”

Tori sighs. “I was thinking the same.”

“First thing we’ll do when we’ve got our hands on some cash is go somewhere we can get hacked.” I think of the rumours I’ve heard of black-market hackers who can run updates for those who have reason to stay off-grid. “We’ll get our tracking chips removed, too.”

The lounge door slides open with a hiss and Sam bounds to my side with supplies in hand and a grin on his face. “I’ve got everything!”

“Great work.” I grab the saucer. Mitchell was speaking Varunese with Sam when he was tutoring him earlier, so I switch to the kid’s native tongue. “Now we just need enough liquid to run the tests.”

I squeeze my sliver of fruit over the dish. Red-purple juice drips like blood, drowning the delicate floral design in the centre of the plate.

An image of ornate, hand-painted floor tiles, their elaborate designs similarly obscured by red liquid, flashes before my eyes. Bloody footprints stamp the tiles. Footprints shaped like the soles of the Mary Janes that go with my school uniform. Blood escapes the pool in gridlike streams that ooze along the cracks between tiles, edging slowly toward me.

I blink the image away. Take a deep breath in, another out.

I force myself to refocus on Sam. My hands tremble slightly as I demonstrate how to dip each test slip so it wicks up the fruit juice.

I’m pretty much recovered by the time the first slip displays a result. I show Sam how the yellow colour of the paper represents a numerical range of toxins per millilitre. The basic algebra he was struggling with earlier has an application here, so I snag his tablet and use his stylus to scratch out the equation. I explain what it means, and he actually seems excited.

We read the results of the first test and input the numbers into the function. Sam solves it quickly, much more motivated to do math now that it pertains to our snack .

“See? You can do this. You just have to see the real-life reason for learning. I hated school ’til I figured that out.”

Sam smiles up at me with his chest puffed proud. He runs over to show Mitchell the tablet screen, then hurries back to input the rest of the results as the test slips begin to show their colours.

“See here?” I say, poking the screen of his tablet where one function spits out a result ten times higher than the others. “This test was for ancontigen. It’s a paralyzing agent, which isn’t surprising considering the tree uses this fruit as bait. Prey can’t get away if it can’t move.”

Sam’s smile dims. “Does that mean I’ll be paralyzed if I eat it?”

“Nope, we got lucky. This one’s simple to counteract. Caffeine, epinephrine, and a couple other things from the first aid kit will do the trick. You’ve got it all right here.” I gesture to the items I’ve laid out on the counter, then I scratch out the chemical equation to show him how it balances.

“It’s just like algebra,” Sam says. He takes his tablet in hand and looks up at me with an awed expression. “You’re really smart!”

“Yeah, well, I went to a good school,” I say as I break a caffeine pill open over a chipped china creamer.

Tori rolls her eyes. “Quit being modest, Gee.” She puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder and leans down to mutter conspiratorially in his ear, “She went to Varus Skyside Academy. One of those accelerated university schools. Kids go in at ten and come of age with a PhD. You have to be a literal genius, with the numbers to prove it, just to apply to that school, and a lot more than a mere genius to actually get in.”

“Wow.” Sam’s eyes are wide. “Did you go there, too?”

Tori snorts. “Not even close. Gee and I met… outside of school.” She glances around. “Hey, didn’t you say you were good at Sliders?” She steers the kid toward the sunken living room, where the game sits ready on a coffee table between the two sofas.

I know exactly why Tori changed the subject so abruptly. We met nine months ago at Varus Beach Teen Wellness Centre. Or, as Tori and I call it, “Rich Bitch Rehab.”

That place was my own personal hell—plenty of rest, relaxation and quiet. No drugs, no boys, and loads of heart-to-heart group therapy sessions designed to dredge up your past and let it fester for all to see.

The story was the same for most of the girls there. Ignored by wealthy parents too busy with their careers and social schedules to keep tabs on their kids, and equipped with unlimited lines of credit, they turned to drugs out of boredom or as a ploy for parental attention.

It took me a month to figure out that Tori was as different from the other girls as I was, and just as desperate not to go back to the circumstances that drove her to Delirium in the first place .

Working together, it took us another two months to plan and execute our escape.

I glance at Tor, hunched over the coffee table laughing along with Sam as he attacks one of her pieces. Over those three months spent bonding in hell, Tori became my first real friend. The first person to like me for who I am and not for what they thought they could gain from me. Since then, we’ve been inseparable.

I return my attention to the cutting board, frowning. I know Tori likes me for me, but part of me wonders whether we’d still be so inseparable if she’d been introduced to me by my real name, instead of the nickname on my nametag in group therapy.

Someday I’ll tell her. I just… It’s just never felt like the right moment.

When I’ve cut up the fruit and prepped enough antidote for everyone—just in case anyone besides Sam actually decides to trust me—I bring my offering to the centre of the room on a dented aluminum tray and set it on the coffee table next to the Sliders board.

Mitchell eyes me curiously, but he doesn’t stop Sam from guzzling his dose of antidote and scarfing cubes of fruit ’til his fingers and face are thoroughly stained with purple juices.

After I allow Sam to beat me at Sliders, he, Tori, and I go for another round of fruit. Vince just eyes the plate and goes back to swigging from his flask. But Mitchell joins in this time, knocking back a shot of the antidote before he bites down on a purple cube.

“Not bad,” he admits. “Not worth getting digested by the wildlife to get it… but not bad.” He smiles at me, and my eyes lock on his mouth for a moment too long.

His lips look soft. Kissable.

I realize where my mind is going and pull my gaze away.

I can’t be into Captain Goody-Goody. He’s such a judgemental, self-righteous… jerk? Ass? Prick?

No. It’s impossible to call Mitchell any of the names I’d use for Vince. That’s the real problem with the captain. He’s too good.

I would never…

He would never…

It’s just that weird situation in the tree earlier pushing my mind in the wrong direction. I turn back to Sam. “How ’bout one more game?”