Excerpt

The Nero's main passenger deck smells like soap, and that's never a good sign.

I bury my nose in my collar, enduring the itch of the wool so I can breathe in the comforting whiff of metal that clings to all my clothes. Until it occurs to me that it might cause trouble if an officer sees me and decides I'm trying to hide my face. So I lift my chin out of my shirt, slip my hands out of my pockets, and edge into the thread of people who need something badly enough to risk venturing into the open.

As open as the deck of a spaceship can hope to be, that is.

An elbow whacks me in the ribs, and I look up, expecting an officer. Expecting the moment that's been due to me my entire life, the reckoning my mother thought she could avoid.

Instead of a murderous officer, though, I catch a quick glimpse of wide, frightened eyes. They glance at the floor, then back to me, and that's all I have time to see before the person is gone.

I follow their gaze toward my feet, and I see I've strayed outside of the markings that dictate the proper lanes for walking. Hot embarrassment flushes my cheeks, and I move aside. I'm not looking to get anyone killed here. And I'm certainly not looking to get caught out over such a dumb infraction.

You wouldn't think there'd be any stowaways on a ship that's been cruising through the galaxy for ten-plus generations. But you'd be wrong. I honestly don't know what they'll do to me if they find me, but I suspect it'd involve a long walk out of a short airlock.

Usually I stick to my perch between the hulls. Out of sight. Today, though, there's something I need to steal.

I only trek this way once per cycle, but it's definitely more crowded than usual. A head of mousey brown hair bobs along in front of me, and it takes a major effort not to bounce on my toes to see what the holdup is about. If I don't sneak into the isolation room in time for the catcher collection, I'll miss my window.

Unfortunately, there's not much to see when you're trapped in a lane like this. Glance down, a parade of scruffy shoes. Glance up, pipes and wires, and the occasional rust-colored button drone zipping along on a job. (I haven't had the guts to try stealing one of those. Yet.)

I'm trying so hard to see what's happening that I almost don't notice we've reached a corridor intersection. Not until my gaze lands on a New Fleet officer, standing statue-still in the center of the turn. Her fatigues are the color of midnight, a holdover from the Fleet Wars, but the white sash running from her shoulder to her hip is supposed to indicate peace times. Or something.

More importantly, she's got a shining silver plasma rifle cradled in her arms like a baby.

I snap my eyes away from the officer, praying she hasn't noticed me examining her, but I don't breathe easy until she's well behind me.

I'm just here to steal this cycle's catcher. Then I'll be gone.

The soap smell only gets worse as I shuffle toward the far end of the ship. It's like too-sweet flowers and rubbing alcohol had baby together, and that baby wants to crawl up my nostrils. It's making my sinuses ache. My lungs aren't super pleased with it, either.

When I turn the next corner, the Nero's main plaza opens up before me like a big, open waste of space. There's a banner stretched taught across the middle of the space, a crimson sheet of cloth printed with eye-curdling yellow words:

GOOD LUCK FLEET TOURNAMENT CHAMPION

It almost reads like a threat.

This explains why Nero's arteries are clogged with people today, and why they've apparently used the ship's entire cleaning supply to scour the decks. The shuttle's coming to pick up the girl who's going off to compete in this tournament thing. The admiral's pet project.

It's supposed to be an olive branch to the other fleet—the one we used to be a part of, until we started a war with them a few decades ago—but it's not something I've spent much time thinking about.

OK, I might've imagined winning the tournament and returning in glory. But only for a second or two.

The tournament is for politicians, and for the poor girl who can apparently do fancy gymnastics or shoot arrows, or whatever she needs to do to win. Her name's Jemma, or Janice, or something like that. I don't have time to care about a game.

Mom would've told me to ditch my plan at this point. That the extra-protein jerky I can afford when I trap a catcher isn't worth the risk on such a crowded day, when there are so many officers patrolling. That I should resign myself to a cycle of crop-deck scavenging and sneak back into the shadows.

But then, Mom also would've told me not to steal catchers at all. And Mom's not here.

I just need to make it across the plaza. Then I can sneak into the collection room, nab my prize, and melt back into the safety of the hull.

The walking lanes disappear as I enter the plaza, a fair imitation of freedom. But there are so many officers threading through the crowds today, their sashes shining like searchlights, their boots polished. I can't help noticing how well-fed they look, too. At least in contrast to the people who duck their heads whenever one of them passes.

The officers stop random people in the crowd. They check pockets. They ask questions. It must be related to the tournament shuttle, though I really can't see why that would be.

My heart's hammering in my chest by the time I reach the center of the space, and the plaster-white statue of a man that looms over us all. Sweat beads along my hairline, but I don't wipe it away. I'm too afraid to call attention to myself.

It feels risky to finish my trek by crossing through the center of the space, so I skirt over to the wall instead. My target is steps away now. It's a public bathroom, where a loosened ceiling tile will admit me to the space between the pair of airlocks that so ruthlessly keep me from crawling through the hull like I usually would.

Maybe there's a reason Mom wouldn't have risked this.