She adjusts a glittering shawl over one shoulder. "I called you because we need to speak about…our problem."
"You mean the slaves?"
"The cargo," she corrects in a firm voice. "I'm told you found it?"
Straik gives a bitter laugh, his tail twitching violently. "I've been chasing after the Buoyant Star for over a year now, Mother." He says the last word like an epithet. "You knew that. Here I thought I'd recover it and give the family fortunes a boost. At what point were you going to tell me that it was full of slaves? That we're slavers?"
He didn't know? I frown. Or is this just performance art for my benefit?
"You didn't need to know, pet. Dirty credits spend the same as clean." She shrugs and leans in, running a finger under one eye as she tweaks her eye makeup. She's more interested in her appearance than her son's obvious anger. "I trust you'll keep your mouth shut about this? It wouldn't do to ruin the family reputation. Think of the scandal."
"So you called to lecture me to keep my mouth shut? As if I'd speak up? Tell the universe what monsters we are?"
She rolls her eyes. "Don't be dramatic, darling. It doesn't suit you. Just look at the mess you've made of your lovely hair." She waves a ring-covered hand idly at him. "And I called because I need you to do something."
His shoulders visibly stiffen, and his tail, lashing wildly, goes utterly still. "What?"
"Oh, don't take that tone with me. I just need you to get rid of the evidence, that's all. Preserve the family name. Take that ship and send it straight into the nearest star. Or a black hole. I don't really care which. Just make sure it disappears permanently." She smiles sweetly. "Then our problem is solved."
My nails bite into my hands. This pretty, jewel-covered woman is an absolute monster.
Straik grunts, and for a moment, I want to punch him. "And what am I supposed to do with the passengers, Mother? There's over a hundred of them. It's going to take time to find them all homes, to get them to sign the proper silencing agreements—"
"You're not listening, darling." Lady Naasi leans in and taps on the screen, as if she could somehow tap on her son's head. "I didn't say to re-home them. I said to dispose of them. Dead slaves tell no tales."
Straik staggers backward as if he's been punched. "You want me to murder over a hundred people?"
"Clones, darling. We both know the majority of that lot are clones. Between those and the humans, they're not important. Sure, it's money down the drain, so to speak, but it's a necessary cost of doing business." She shrugs, her expression cold. "I can't believe you have a problem with murder. You've been playing corsair for years now."
"I don't go around murdering people!" Straik bellows.
"But you have killed before."
"Those that fight me, yes—"
Lady Naasi leans in. "Then pretend that they're all fighting you." Her voice is like ice. "I won't say this again. Make them disappear." She leans forward and studies her son. "And pull yourself together. You're a disgraceful mess."
With that, the screen winks out.
Straik buries his hands in his shorn, jagged hair, staring at the screen with a look of utter disgust and horror on his face. As he does, the back of his tunic completely shears off, the last of the seams giving way.
20
STRAIK
Everything in my life is falling apart. My crew, my career, my family—my clothes.
It's like just when I need control the most, the universe decides to shred my world to pieces. I try to catch the pieces of my tunic as they slide off my body, but it just enrages me more. With frustration, I rip the final shreds off of my arms and stomp on the pieces. It doesn't solve anything, but at least I feel slightly better.
I put my hands on my hips, blow out a breath of irritation, and then turn to the closet. I can practically feel her lurking there like some malevolent entity. I suspect when I open the door, she's going to jump out at me, screeching, and claw my eyes out…providing she hasn't chewed a hole through the keffing wall in a bid to escape. Ugh. The females in my life are determined to drive me to madness.
Bracing myself for her inevitable anger, I slide the door to the closet open with a touch…and find her sitting in a pile of my clothing. Or what looks like pieces of my clothing. For some reason, more of my tunics are falling apart, as one is barely clinging to its hanger by a thread and another has a sleeve practically falling off. The female sits amidst this chaos. She holds one tunic against her like a blanket and gives me a mutinous look.