I lean back, staring up at the ceiling like it’s going to hand me a strategy. All I get is silence.
I tap a few commands into the console, rerouting our heading. No more dead space. No more drift.
We need fuel. Supplies. Weapons I trust.
So I punch in the coordinates for Eltar-9—a black-market asteroid hub that doesn’t ask questions and won’t report odd cargo. Like passengers with no IDs and murder in their eyes.
The nav computer chirps confirmation. Course adjusted. ETA: sixteen hours.
She doesn’t need to know where we’re going yet.
Hell, she doesn’t need to know anything until I say so.
Still, I can’t leave her locked in there forever. That’s not strategy. That’s cowardice. And I don’t get to be a coward.
I initiate internal systems control and carve out a narrow access path—galley, sanitation, and lower deck corridor. Doors marked, firewalled. One false move and the ship locks down tighter than a smugglers’ vault.
She gets controlled space.
Monitored air.
I want to see what she does with it.
When I stand, my body protests. Muscles sore, jaw tight from clenching. I haven't moved this cautiously since my last real war. And even then, the enemy wasn’t sleeping under my roof in nothing but my borrowed shirt and an open wound for a secret.
I return to the cabin and disengage the lock. She’s seated on the edge of the bed, back straight, face unreadable. Still.
But her hands betray her—fingers laced too tight, knuckles white, like she’s trying to keep herself from shaking apart.
I say nothing for a moment. Let the silence sit heavy between us, like a second gravity.
Then I speak.
“You have access to the galley and lower corridor. That’s it.”
She nods once, small and quick.
“You stay where I tell you. You eat what I give you. You don’t touch my controls. You try to bolt, Iwillstop you.”
Another nod.
“I’m not turning around,” I say, voice flat. “You lied. You’re here. You’re useful now. That’s your job.”
She flinches, barely. “What does ‘useful’ mean?”
“Means you’ll keep pretending. You’ll learn what I teach. You’ll act the part long enough to scare Large Marj into second-guessing herself.”
“And after?”
I tilt my head. “After depends on whether you screw it up.”
The way she exhales—shallow, broken—it’s not relief. It’s survival.
I know the difference.
I walk past her to the panel near the door, press my wristband to the scanner, and gesture. “You’re cleared for corridor movement. Bathroom’s on your left. Galley’s forward. Don’t try the other doors.”
She stands but doesn’t move.
