Lucky for me, drunk men hear like old men: poorly. I make it to the lounge without trouble. From there, I go right into the galley. I wince at the slight hiss of the door opening, and then reel back. The smell of fresh food washes over me in an awesome wave. My mouth drips with saliva.
A beautiful temptation awaits me. There, on the counter under the muted red glow of the fresher lies a feast for a queen—half a loaf of fresh bread with an open container of creamy yellow butter, shimmering apricot jam, a selection of stinky, thick cheeses, and a gorgeous, huge ham glistening with a dewy glaze of honey. My salivary glands ache and I swoon, but I can’t touch it. Any of it. I dare not. It will be missed. Must keep discipline. Never take the fresh food, Lyria; that’s a rule I made.
With a lonesome glance at the feast, I slump toward the larder, where I drink a liter of water straight from the spigot, then fill five new bladders and stuff them into my bag. Next, I steal several days’ worth of MREs, always picking from the back of the containers and only taking one from each container so the depletion won’t be noticed. I hesitate over the jars of sunflower butter. There are dozens. I’ve already taken two, but it’s my lone delight. Surely another won’t be noticed. I steal one from the back, feeling the thrill at my own daring.
With my supplies refilled, I prepare for my return expedition. But another temptation calls like a Siren from one of those Greek stories. The re-hydrator. I linger in front of it back in the galley, lusty, wishing I could dare to use the machine on my MREs. Oh, to taste hot food instead of the dead crunch of dehydrated calories that awaits me back in my sad little cubby. I could just do one meal. Maybe two. If only I could afford the noise the machine makes. No. I’m thinking like a madwoman. I already have my sunflower butter. I’ve been naughty enough. I pull myself away, only to feel a second tug. A greater tug. The ham. Oh sweet Vale, the ham.
It’s a huge ham for huge people. Surely they won’t miss a slice. Or two. A knife is right there on the counter. Ham, with a dollop of butter. A slice of bread. I could make myself a sandwich. A golden fantasy appears—me and my sandwich alone in my cubby, getting to know each other real sloppy like. I will make myself a sandwich. I deserve a reward for all this daring, don’t I? I peek over my shoulder. The coast is clear. I set down my bag and extend a trembling hand for the knife, another for the ham to hold it as I cut a small slice. But it’s such a big ham that I give into my greed and cut a larger slice.
As I shift the ham to cut it, I feel a strange resistance from the ham, a tension. Squinting, I see something. A faint, almost invisible thread attached to the ham and running toward the wall where it’s connected to a mysterious, fingernail-sized piece of metal.
Some primal part of my mind senses the danger before the logical part puzzles it all together. I’ve just taken the bait to a trap. Shit. Shit. Shit. Something snags my feet and jerks them out from under me. I’m flipped upside down.
Blood rushes to my head. The knife flies from my hand, but I hold tight to the ham. Feet pound in the hall outside. I spin, wheeling my arms, suspended in the air.
A dark shape runs full tilt into the galley. A demonic smile flashes on a crazed face that stretches as it screams at me. Ham in my hand, upside down, I yelp as Sevro rushes me and envelopes me in a sack.
* * *
—
“Sevro, get away from the airlock and put her down,” Darrow orders.
“She was eating our supplies.”
“Put her down.”
“Fine.” Sevro’s voice is monotone beyond the dark fabric of the sack. “Sevro, you’re paranoid. Sevro, you need to get more sleep. Your rat’s imaginary. Stupid Bellona. I told him we had a rat in the walls. I never miscount my sun butter.” He carries me on his shoulder.
“Tell me you didn’t hurt her.” Darrow’s voice. “Sevro.”
“She still has her scalp.”
“Sevro, Jove. She’s just a girl.”
“What’s what?” a warm, masculine voice with the most beautiful accent I’ve ever heard asks as he joins. Cassius. “The airlock alarm went off. Where’s Aurae? Is she all right?”
The Pink’s voice: “I’m fine. I thought I heard a girl scream.”
“I didn’t scream,” I say in the sack.
“Yes, you did,” Sevro says.
“No, I didn’t.” He kicks me through the sack. Hard. Pain jolts through my ribs.
“Stop, Sevro,” Darrow snaps.
“Is that a person in that bag?” Cassius asks.
“Yes!” I say. “My name is Lyria! I am a person.”
“Is that the Red scout?” the Pink, Aurae, asks. “Poor thing, let her out.”
“No.”
There’s a scuffle and Sevro curses in pain. “Son of a bitch.”
The bag unzips and I’m dumped onto the floor at the feet of Sevro, Darrow, Cassius, and a woman so beautiful she must be made of shadow and starlight. I blink up at her, forgetting the giants towering over me. No, shadow and fog. That’s what she is.
“Hello,” I say to her.
The woman smiles sweetly, and then sniffs Sevro’s shoulder. “Is that urine?”
Sevro pulls a knife the size of my leg. “Sevro…” Darrow says. Sevro stares at me with so much rage, I think he’s going to kill me. Darrow sees the look too, and asks if he’s all right. The rage is not for the ham or the urine. It’s for telling him about Ulysses. The others don’t know. That’s plain as day, and the look of hate carries a warning: Keep your mouth shut.
He knows I got the message. He stalks away.
* * *
—
Cassius laughs so hard he has to lean against the wall. Aurae disapproves of the entire scene. She scowls at Cassius and kneels beside me. “Lyria, isn’t it? Are you hurt?” she asks. I shake my head and look up at Darrow.
“What do you think you are doing?” he asks.
“I told you that I can help.”
“Well, she pissed on Sevro and lived,” Cassius manages between fits of laughter. “Name one other person who’s done that.”
“This is absurd and cruel,” Aurae says and puts herself between Darrow and me. “Isn’t she one of your agents? At least let her change before you interrogate her.”
“I ain’t so fragile.” I push her off and stand on my own. Gods, Darrow is tall. So is Cassius. Both broad as barns. It strains my neck glaring up at them. “I swore I’d help get Volga back, and I’m going to.”
“I gave you an order,” Darrow says.
“Remember: I ain’t a soldier.”
“Sevro gave you a message to deliver to my wife.”
“The ship is going to Agea whether I’m on it or not. I left the message on the commissary table. Volga needs me. Mars doesn’t.”
“Who is Volga?” Aurae asks.
“Ragnar’s daughter, Fá’s granddaughter,” Darrow murmurs. “Supposedly.”
Aurae blinks in surprise at me. “You know the granddaughter of the Obsidian warlord attacking Ilium?”
“She’s my best friend,” I say, more than a little proud.
Aurae turns on Darrow to scold him. “And you told her she couldn’t come?”