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Chapter Three

Demeter Science Station

“Hey, Pony, you joining us for drinks at Escape?” Dallas asked, pulling Wren out of her focus.

She switched off the torch, flipped her welding shield up, and leaned back on her haunches to admire the neat seam. With a sweeping gaze, from left to right, a swell of pride engulfed her. Sure, she had far to go, but with all the beams she’d already done, she could rest on her laurels.

“Undecided,” she said.

“You say that every damn time we ask.” He huffed. “We’re not going to stop inviting you, so you might as well accept.”

She frowned and ran her gloved thumb over the welded seam her father would say was a job well done. Or not. She smiled and raised her gaze to a tourist ship inching past her location. Behind them were a few other ships, some she recognized. Beyond those was the endlessness of space, calling to her.

“I promise to consider it if you’ll shut up about it.” She stowed the torch and stood.

A whoop bombarding her ears made her wince, but thankfully, he said no more.

Her shift was almost over. If she wanted to leap, she’d need to store her tank and gear to make it to the tower.

Sticky sweat layered her skin between her clothes and the suit.

She itched for a shower, to slip into a baggy T-shirt, and spend some hours doing research on her Cherry Blossom bonsai.

It had yet to bloom, but one of the online groups she belonged to had assured her that it would be soon.

Or she could read the latest in her alien romances.

She smirked and guided herself along the makeshift scaffold, using gentle flicks of her fingers on the support struts to float back to the tool locker.

While stowing her equipment, she nodded at her colleagues, not daring to make eye contact lest it encouraged them to chat.

They mumbled about their plans for the weekend.

She had none and preferred it that way. After latching a refilled bottle of splice-laced water onto her suit, she sipped from the straw hidden inside her helmet.

The burn started on her tongue and slid down her throat to coil delicious heat in the pit of her stomach.

Yes, I needed this. Without a backward glance, she launched herself toward the tower crane.

It took moments to unclasp the cord and hook it to her ankle harnesses.

All accompanied by sips from her cocktail.

She didn’t drink on the job, not wanting to risk getting caught.

Possession of splice, though somewhat legal, would get her fired.

But she was off-duty now.

One more yank of the tether to the harnesses had her grinning.

Along the crane she climbed, thunking along with her boots activated.

Not that she heard a thing, just the vibration traveling up her legs from the magnets connecting and releasing.

At the top, the crane stretched farther out.

It must have been used that day. She laughed, grateful for the extended reach.

This morning’s leap had gone uncontested, without a single station-sec showing their faces.

So much for Pierce’s twenty-four-seven Turner duty.

Hooking the tether to the ‘highest’ cross beam, she straightened, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath.

When she swept her gaze across Pluto, she pushed off, throwing herself at its moon, Charon.

She spread her arms out wide like an eagle riding the air currents.

If she waved her limbs, would it be considered ‘making space angels’?

She didn’t know but did it anyway, giggling at her silliness.

“Urgent communication from Earth Armed Forces–Justice Division,” a robotic voice, a little too feminine, droned in her ear.

Before she could reject the comm, the automation continued, “Receipt documented for 0606/1806. Turner, Wren, Identification number: 222510180522081-A, age twenty-nine, on parole for corporate espionage.”

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it,” she snapped. E—e

The voice ignored her, programmed to deliver a message within set parameters. “Scheduled release interview delayed due to poor performance. Twenty-four months added to sentence.”

She jerked back then cried out, “Two more years? For what?”

“Information classified.”

Heat lambasted her body and not the good splice kind. “The hell it is. Declassify it.”

“Message complete.” A beep announced the call had ended.

She screamed, writhing in place as her anger poured out of her.

No way would she stand for it. She’d log a call with her parole officer.

Gunnar no more wanted her to be on his roster than she did.

He’d know what to do. Maybe pull some strings to find out who the hell had done this to her and why?

She’d been a good girl, damn it. She twitched her lips to snatch onto her straw for a deep suck but got nothing but air.

Of all the— She cursed. Her splice was gone when she needed it the most. Using the tether as leverage, she flipped onto her back, preparing to drag herself to the station. She needed alcohol and lots of it. But first, she’d shower, comm Gunnar, then drown herself in her sorrows.

“Dallas,” she growled.

“What does my fair maiden require?” he asked, trying to mimic her elocution.

“Cut it out. If you’re paying tonight, I accept your invitation.” She locked onto the crane’s metallic frame and headed for its base.

“Damn it, Pony,” he grumbled. “By the sounds of it, you plan to drink us under the table.”

“It’s that or I, unfortunately, cannot attend.” She unlatched her water bottle and gave it a shake.

A scowl formed. Did she have any splice stashed at home? She groaned after mentally running through her hidey holes. Nope. This had been her last. She’d need to head to the lower levels for a little…shopping. As a matter of urgency.

“Fine, I’ll pay if you wear a dress.” His mocking tone didn’t make her wince, but the idea of not wearing pants did.

She grimaced. Never again would she dress up for anyone. “I don’t own such a garment.”

“I’ll send one over.” He hung up on a chuckle.

“Still won’t wear it,” she muttered and slid the bottle into its slot but fumbled, sending it spinning off into space.

Her name was stamped onto the metal flask.

One sniff would tell anyone finding it what had once been inside it, guaranteeing her a one-way ticket to Mars’ penal colony.

Panic seized her. In one hand, she held the hook to her harnesses, glanced at the escaping bottle to judge whether she had time to secure the cord to her ankles, then cursed.

She didn’t. Praying her grip would hold, she launched herself after the bottle.

Splice vendors were by station law required to inform her that the consumption of splice was hazardous to her health, especially if she was pregnant. None had mentioned this scenario. She was running out of cord with the bottle blithely on its journey.

A sob lodged in her throat. Tears stung her eyes and splashed on her visor.

Now isn’t the time to cry. She clenched her jaw and extended her arm, her finger inches from the bottle.

Each passing second sent it farther out of reach.

Swinging herself out with one hand on the end of the tether, she tried again.

She brushed the lid and sent it catapulting away.

For a split second, she considered setting it free, but space was a capsule, trapping everything in a ‘time’ vacuum.

A decade from now, someone could find it and know about her little habit.

Without considering the risks, she tapped her boots and shot forward, the power from her boosters forcing her to release the cord.

She caught the bottle, trapped it to her chest with both arms, then tried to spin.

Pierce had made it look so easy.

Nothing was going her way today. She tumbled into a spiral. At least she headed to the station, but at this momentum, she’d collide with something if she didn’t gain control. She locked the bottle into its slot then pulsed the boosters, slowing her ‘descent.’

A grin formed despite the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears. Her breathing was ragged, and sweat droplets merged with her tears.

“Fuck yeah!” She laughed at the adrenaline punching through her.

Angling her body sent her toward the crane. She’d pull the cord in and head home.

What she needed was another splice. Her insides were jittery, and an unnatural thirst made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.

A tingle spread from her stomach to the tips of her fingers.

She frowned and brought her hand into her line of sight.

Nothing looked abnormal; it was gloved, five-fingered, and steady.

Ice drenched her body, sucking the air from her lungs. One moment she was perspiring like a hover jockey at the races, then her suit was gone, and she was suspended in a yellow-lit room. Gray metal lined the walls, ceiling, and floor.

“What the hell?” She blinked, twisting in the anti-gravity cube to face a door.

“How the hell did I get here, and where is here?” Had that last sip of splice killed too many of her brain cells?

Had she lost her mind? She wiped her eyes and inched her ungloved hand away, hoping normality would surround her.

“Hello?” she called, swimming toward the door. It had a porthole and might reveal who or what was behind it.

She caught herself against the chilled metal to peer out. A passage? With grated flooring and other porthole doors? She pulled back to tap her O.D.I. Holographic letters flickered to life.

“Dallas?” she whispered, cleared her throat, and tried again. “About tonight. I’ll come in the nude.” She waited, sure he’d respond to that.

Her breathing grew heavier while the seconds trudged by.

“Pierce?” she squeaked, praying he heard her. When he too remained silent, she scanned the room again. It did look like a prison cell. Solitary confinement? Had E.A.F. imprisoned her? Was this part of their punishment?