Page 7 of Commander’s Mate

“What does the Consortium say?” I asked.

“Officially? They regret communication failures during wartime operations.”

I closed my eyes.

“Unofficially,” Degatu continued, “they urge restraint and cooperation. They ask that we return all Consortium military assets to authorized defense space until a full inquiry can be completed.”

“Do they?”

“They also imply that any unsanctioned action against Sargus commercial partners could endanger reconstruction aid.”

I opened my eyes.

Not surprise. Confirmation.

“They threaten aid to Farseek if we rescue slaves.”

“They threaten nothing directly. They are politicians.”

“They threaten like cowards.”

“Yes.”

I looked back down at the world that had made me. “Then we take the governor’s money, rescue his daughter, and let the Consortium decide how much uglier it wants to become.”

“And if Guryon is no better than the rest?”

I thought of the young female in the holo-image. Kyanna Guryon had not destroyed Farseek. She was not responsible for her father’s class, wealth, or cowardice. She was a captive headed to auction.

“Then we take his money anyway.”

For the first time that day, Degatu almost smiled.

“That,” he said, “sounds like a mercenary.”

Chapter Two

Harper

The last normal thing I ever did on Earth was argue with a trash bag.

It was one of those cheap white kitchen bags that said heavy duty on the box and then split open if you looked at it with too much confidence. I had told myself three times I was going to buy better ones. I had even put them on the grocery list stuck to my refrigerator with a magnet shaped like Ohio. Then I forgot them, because apparently a woman could remember every turn on a mail route, three birthdays, the exact brand of coffee she liked, and where she left her phone charger, but not trash bags.

So there I stood in my backyard in early May, one hand pinching the ripped plastic together and the other trying to tie the top before coffee grounds, banana peel, and junk mail slid onto my sneakers.

“Come on, you little traitor,” I muttered.

The bag tore another inch.

Of course it did.

Cherry Street was quiet behind me. It usually was at that hour. Most people had either gone inside for dinner or were doing what I was doing: chores they had ignored until the sun started dropping. The sky over the trees looked painted in gold and peach. The old maple behind Mrs. Dorn’s garage had finally leafed out. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked twice, then lost interest.

My life was not exciting. That had never bothered me much.

I worked. I paid bills. I watered the sad little herb pots on my back porch and pretended I was going to learn how to cook with fresh basil instead of just buying it because women with fresh basil seemed to have their lives together. On Fridays, I ordered Chinese from the place on Main Street and watched whatever sci-fi show my brother insisted I needed to catch up on, even though he lived two counties over and mostly used me as an excuse to text commentary at midnight.

Normal. Small. Mine.