He thought of Mercy's unimpressed scowl and her rattletrap ship with its mismatched panels and questionable fried egg decal.
He smiled. "Where shall I send the credits?"
2
Mercy had made some stupid decisions about cargo before. The less she thought about that time she decided to transport an entire herd of cattle, the better. The smell had lingered for months, and she'd found hoofprints in places hoofprints had no business being.
Lord Zane, though, might have been the least wise decision she ever made, period.
He hadn't been kidding about the wine cellar.
Exactly forty-seven minutes after he climbed aboard with four large trunks and one small bag slung over his shoulder, he had summoned her to his room and politely requested her finest vintage.
Who did that? Lords, apparently. Lords who wore silk shirts to travel through space and somehow made her cramped corridors feel smaller just by existing in them.
All Mercy had was half a bottle of something red she had picked up in a port she couldn't even pronounce the name of. The label had peeled off two years ago.
To Lord Zane's credit, he had drunk it down like the brave little lord he was. No grimace, no complaint. Just a slight tightening around his eyes that said he'd rather drink engine coolant. He hadn't asked for another glass with supper. He'd also left the bottle on the counter with exactly two sips of wine still in it, because apparently that's what lords did instead of just finishing the damn thing.
She wasn't sure how lords were supposed to act. Spoiled, sure. Vain, of course. Demanding, that went with the territory.
But when she walked through the galley after dinner on the second night and it was sparkling clean—far cleaner than she normally left it—she'd been confused. The metal surfaces actually gleamed. The recycler hummed contentedly instead of making that grinding noise that sounded like someone strangling a cat. Even the stubborn grease stain she'd given up on three months ago had vanished.
Had he smuggled a cleaning bot in with all of those supplies?
The third morning brought another surprise. Fresh bread. The smell filled the entire corridor, warm and yeasty and completely wrong for a cargo ship. She'd found him in the galley, flour dusting his expensive shirt, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He had a smudge of it on his cheekbone too, and she'd had to physically turn around to stop herself from pointing it out.
During lunch, she discovered more of his … helpfulness. "Where is the green spice?" she'd growled.
"It's in the cabinet right above the cooktop," Zane said, appearing at her elbow like some kind of silk-wearing ghost.
She nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around, eyes wide and ready to lash out with the knife she had vowed to stop carrying two years ago. Her hand went to her hip where the blade used to rest, fingers closing on empty air. The movement was pure muscle memory. Old instincts died hard.
"You moved everything," she said.
"It makes more sense now."
Maybe to him. The old system had worked fine. Spices on the left, dried goods on the right, emergency rations hidden behind the false panel he thankfully hadn't found yet. She'd organized it during a three-day stint of insomnia, and the logic made perfect sense if you didn't think about it too hard.
"Things are where they are for a reason," she said. "You can't just go around moving things."
"And yet I did. Wine?"
He pulled out a bottle that she definitely hadn't seen before. The label was in a script she couldn't read, all elegant curves and gold leaf. It probably cost more than her fuel for this entire trip. The bottle itself looked hand-blown, with tiny imperfections that screamed "artisanal" and "your credit account is crying."
"Did you bring that with you?"
He shrugged. "I loaded up before climbing aboard. It was clear you weren't going to be honoring my demands about the wine cellar."
It wasn't a complaint. His mouth did this thing at the corner, not quite a smile, more like he was trying not to laugh at his own joke. Did he think it was funny?
What was this guy's deal?
She studied him. Three days in, and he still looked like he'd stepped out of some society holo. His hair fell in perfect waves, his clothes remained mysteriously unwrinkled. But there were shadows under his eyes she hadn't noticed before. Tension in the set of his shoulders when he thought she wasn't looking. And he had this habit of touching his left cufflink whenever he was about to lie or deflect. She'd clocked it on day two.
"So why did you need a ride?" she asked, taking the offered wine. It was offensively good. Smooth and complex, with layers of flavor that made her usual rotgut taste like battery acid. There was something in it that tasted like cherries, but also smoke, but also something else she couldn't name. It annoyed her that she liked it.
Zane shrugged and swirled his own vintage around in the tin mug he had scavenged from somewhere. "Life brings you to all sorts of places with all sorts of duties. I was summoned."
