Excerpt - Frankie Takes a Bow , chapter 1

From Frankie Takes a Bow

Chapter One

The Spear’s kitchen smelled like burnt toast and victory.

Frankie leaned against the L-shaped galley counter, inhaling the familiar cocktail of industrial soap and cyvlossic kibble, overlaid by the scent of her failed attempt at an “authentic Wala-style breakfast.” The dark rye toast had turned to charcoal while she’d been trying to figure out how to fold the spinach and dried fish into the creamy rice. But even the acrid smell couldn’t dampen her mood.

They were home. Her ship, her rules.

Her slightly scorched breakfast.

Spike sprawled across the back of their favorite dining nook, the one closest to the door, past the round center table in the center of the kitchen. Her scruffy gray-black-orange fur spread in every direction like she’d been hit by an electrostatic burst. One massive paw dangled, occasionally batting at a suspicious-looking tear in the orange padding on the bench back of the U-shaped nook with the kind of lazy disdain only a cyvlossic could manage.

New kibble must’ve been good.

Frankie grabbed the “Galaxy’s Best Captain” mug Beth had given her and poured real coffee—not the synthetic swill that tasted like burnt rubber, but actual beans from the agricultural station near Smithson Station. The smell alone was worth the price. Rich, dark, with hints of chocolate and home and not being sneaky for once.

She settled into her usual spot in the breakfast nook, across the table from Spike, sinking into the battered orange cushions that had molded themselves to her shape over hundreds of meals. The gray metal table still had that sticky spot near the edge where she’d spilled honey last week. Or was it two weeks ago? Time blurred together in the black between jump points.

The seedling Tala from White Moon Landing had given her caught the morning-tinted light from the overhead panels, its red-tipped tendrils already creeping up the wall beside the reheater. In just a week (or two), it had claimed a quarter meter of vertical space, creating a delicate lattice of green against the dull gray bulkhead. Every time Frankie looked at it, she remembered White Moon, quantum dots, and the fact that Spike had a data port hidden somewhere in that matted-fur belly.

And she could use it.

On the black speckled rubber-metal floor, beside the PermaPot holding the seedling, two half-empty paint cans waited like patient promises. Blue Sky and Butter Morning. She’d been staring at them for days, and then staring at the utilitarian gray walls in the kitchen. In the hallways. In her bedroom.

But something held her back. Indecisiveness? Not really. Imposter syndrome, more like.

She’d bought this ship, and the cargo routes it was licensed for, from Old Peters more than a year ago. Since then, it had been shot at, stunk up for a month by a shipment of glimmerantin beans, and used for rescuing damsels in distress (well, cyvlossics who wanted to run away from home).

So why did she still feel like a visitor? Like the Spear wasn’t really hers—not deep down. It was still Old Peters’ ship in all the ways that mattered. She was just borrowing it.

Go on. Make it yours.

Easier said than done.

Her wrist comm beeped a reminder, and Beth’s message hovered in the air again, purple-gold priority seal mocking her procrastination.

Call me. No, it’s good news.

Three days. Three days she’d been finding excuses. The nav array needed recalibrating (it didn’t). The number two escape pod was making a funny noise (barely audible). The cargo manifest for their next run required extensive review (it was two lines long).

Frankie pressed “remind me later,” again, and the message disappeared.

Good news from Beth usually meant someone in the Cooperative Realm’s central government had actually done their job. Another orphan support program had squeezed through committee, maybe. Or Beth had been promoted again and wanted Frankie to attend the ceremony. Which meant formalwear. Which meant a trip to Zichi. To the Capital, with its empty air and perfect manners and memories sharp enough to cut.

She loved her friend, the only one she’d really kept after the destruction of her home planet. And Beth was a great cook—probably could make a Wala-style breakfast in her sleep. But Beth loved the Capital, and the politics, and the whole song and dance.

And why shouldn’t she? She was good at it. Not like Frankie, poster child for the Child Orphans of Wala. If only that photo, the one that caught everyone’s imagination—and their sick, sad pity—had been of Beth instead of her.

The comm beeped again. New message: Frankie, seriously. Call me.

Then: I can see you’re receiving these.

Then: I’m using the priority channel in five minutes.

“Shit.” Frankie sat straight. She looked at Spike. “Beth’s on the rampage.”

Spike yawned, displaying an impressive array of teeth that had made more than one dock worker reconsider their life choices. Somehow, the gesture conveyed both I told you so and this is what you get for procrastinating.

The priority channel meant encryption so thick it made the air taste metallic. It meant real-time video that would show every stain on her tank top, every wild curl escaping her hasty ponytail.

“Maybe I should change?” She looked down at herself. The lubricant stain from fixing the gray-water recycler had dried into an interesting pattern that looked almost artistic if you squinted. At least the tank top was purple. Used to be purple, it actually looked more lilac now.

Spike’s tail twitched. One. Precise. Flick.

Frankie slouched back into the bench seat, and took another sip of the wonderful coffee.

The comm screen erupted, a circle of purple and gold, the Regent’s seal filling the small table between Frankie and Spike with officious light. Priority override. No more hiding.

Frankie’s finger hovered over the accept button. In the background, that panel in the wall buzzed—a loose connection she’d been meaning to fix since buying the ship. The coffee maker gurgled. The seedling rustled in the circulation vent’s breeze. All the sounds of home, about to be invaded by—

She hit accept.

Beth’s face materialized above the table.

Oh, no. Oh, no no no.

Her best friend was glowing. Not the metaphorical glow of happiness, though that too, but actually luminous. Like someone had replaced her blood with liquid starlight. Her ebony hair, which Frankie remembered in practical braids or a graceful swoop, was now an architectural marvel of loops and spirals that defied at least three laws of physics. Her formal jacket was cerulean blue when it wasn’t shifting between colors

And her smile. Frankie had seen that exact smile once before, when they were twelve and Beth had figured out how to hack the Complex’s dessert dispensers. They’d eaten chocolate until they were sick, laughing on the bathroom floor at three in the morning, sugar-drunk and invincible.

“Finally!” Beth said, and even her voice sparkled. “I was about to send a diplomatic courier. Do you know how much paperwork that involves?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would. I’ve already filled out the first three forms.” Beth leaned forward, and the projection flickered slightly—even priority channels had their limits out here in the edge systems. “Listen. I have news! Amazing news. Life-changing, universe-altering, practice-your-surprised-face news.”

Frankie’s stomach began a slow slide toward her grav boots. In her experience, life-changing news was rarely the good kind.

“Beth—”

“I’m getting married!”

The words hung in the recycled air like unexploded ordnance. Spike’s other eye opened. Both ears swiveled forward. Even the buzzing panel seemed to pause.

“Married,” Frankie repeated, testing the word. It felt foreign in her mouth, like speaking High Galactic after months of dock-worker slang. “You. Getting married. To another person. On purpose.”

“I know!” Beth clasped her hands together, and Frankie noticed the ring—subtle by Capital standards, which meant it probably cost more than the Spear. ”I can barely believe it myself. But Frankie, he’s wonderful. He’s brilliant and kind and he actually listens when I talk about agricultural subsidies. He has this project with singing orchids—they harmonize based on light frequencies—and yesterday he spent three hours explaining the bio-acoustic principles and I understood maybe half of it but I wasn’t bored once!”

The words tumbled out in a rush so unlike Beth’s usual measured diplomatic cadence. This was twelve-year-old Beth, pre-politics Beth, Beth who used to practice speeches in their shared bathroom while Frankie threw soap bubbles at her for emphasis.

“That’s…” Frankie groped for words. “That’s wonderful. Who’s the lucky—”

“Alain diCimino.” Beth’s glow dimmed slightly, watching Frankie’s face.

The Regent’s second son.

The kitchen tilted. Or maybe that was just Frankie’s inner ear giving up. She gripped the table’s edge, fingers finding the sticky spot like an anchor.

“The Regent’s…” The words wouldn’t come.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Beth’s expression shifted, political training reasserting itself. “It’s calculated. It’s climbing. I’m selling out even more than I already have. But it’s not like that. He doesn’t even want the succession. His older brother can have all that nonsense. Alain just wants to grow his singing plants and maybe teach at the university someday. He makes me laugh, Frankie. When was the last time someone at the Complex made me actually laugh?”

Frankie couldn’t answer that. She was still processing “Regent’s son.” The Regent, who’d taken them in after Wala imploded. Who’d dressed them up like dolls and paraded them through the systems as symbols of Cooperative benevolence. Who’d meant well, probably, but who’d never understood that kindness could be its own kind of cage.

“Wedding’s in six weeks,” Beth burbled, oblivious. “On Zichi, of course. The whole Complex is already in preparation mode. You should see the flower arguments. Someone suggested Orr roses and three senators nearly declared war. The Trade Committee actually issued a formal statement about ‘inappropriate outer-moon-centric displays.’ It’s ridiculous and I love every minute of it.”

“Six weeks?” Frankie’s voice came out strangled. Spike poured herself onto the bench and padded around to Frankie. The cyvlossic flopped down beside her, her head on Frankie’s thigh. Without thinking, Frankie set her hand on Spike’s flank, and grasped a clump of warm fur.

“That’s… soon,” she finally said.

“I know! But we didn’t want to wait, and besides…” Beth’s expression shifted again, becoming softer and somehow more intense. “I chose the date specially. To make that horrible anniversary into something beautiful.”

The tilting sensation became a full spin. Frankie knew what was coming. Knew it in her bones, in the place where trauma lived.

“The twenty-second.” Beth’s voice was gentle now, careful. “The Wala anniversary. I thought… I thought we could transform it. Make it a day about love and new beginnings instead of…”

Instead of endings. Instead of fire and ash and a nine-year-old girl in a famous photo, staring at the camera like the world had broken.

Which it had.

“Oh.” Beth must have seen something in Frankie’s face. “Oh, honey, I didn’t think—I mean, I did think, I thought it would be healing—”

“It’s fine,” Frankie said automatically. Her hands were shaking. Spike started to purr. Two decades—more—since Wala was destroyed. Two decades since she became an orphan, a ward, a symbol, a footnote in history books.

And Beth wanted to paste a wedding over it like fixing a hull breach with decorative tape.

“It’s not fine.” Beth leaned forward, close enough that Frankie could see the worry lines that politics had etched around her eyes. “I can see that. But Frankie, that’s exactly why I need you there. You’re my best friend. You’re the only one who understands what that day means. The others…”

“The others?”

Beth’s expression went carefully neutral, diplomat-blank. “I reached out to all of them. Every surviving orphan. They… declined. Very politely. But firmly.”

Of course they did. Frankie could imagine those conversations. So sorry, Beth. Previous engagement. Can’t possibly make it. Send our best. Please don’t ever call us again.

“But you’ll come.” It wasn’t quite a question. “You have to come. It won’t be right without you.”

Frankie closed her eyes. What had they said to each other? “My door is open. My hand is yours.” Anything, for Beth.

Anything but this.

“It’s just, I… this is a lot.”

“I know,” Beth looked off screen. Was someone there? “I know it is. And I know you hate the Capital, and formal events make you break out in stress hives, and the last time you wore a dress we were—what, twelve?”

“Fourteen. That diplomatic reception where I spilled sauce on the Praxian ambassador.”

“Right! See? Memories.” Beth’s smile was wobbly now, real emotion breaking through the polish. “Good memories mixed with the awful ones, but still. We survived, Frankie. We made it out. And now I’m getting married to a man who makes plants sing, and I want my best friend there to tell me if I’m being an idiot.”

Frankie looked at her cup, the coffee growing cold. At Spike, in full noisy sprawl. At Beth, whose shoulders were stiff with worry.

“Don’t answer right now.” Beth straightened, pulling her political face back on like armor. “Think about it. But think fast. I need to know soon for security clearances and seating charts and about a thousand other ridiculous details that apparently require Senate subcommittee approval.”

“Security clearances. Right.” Because attending a wedding on Zichi meant background checks and diplomatic protocols and media cameras and people asking about that day, that picture, that moment when she learned that the universe had teeth.

“I love you,” Beth said suddenly. “Whatever you decide. I love you and I miss you and I wish… I wish things were different.”

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “Me too.”

The call ended, leaving purple-gold afterimages floating in the air. Frankie lifted her hands to her wayward hair, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine herself at a society wedding in the heart of everything she’d run from.

“Well,” she said to Spike. “Shit.”

Spike yawned. The purring continued.

The Spear hummed around them, steady and sure. Somewhere in the walls, that panel resumed its buzzing. The seedling rustled in the air from the vents. The freezer sighed.

Home. Her home. Her burnt-toast-scented, snowman-shaped, jump-gate traveling home.

Six weeks until she’d have to leave it.

From Frankie Takes a Bow