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just fine.”
    “There isn’t another woman on the ship to offer a gentler touch to clean those if you need help. Well, there will be, but trust me, she isn’t gentle.”
    The snort that escaped my nose surprised us both. He lifted an eyebrow.
    “The only person more sadistic than my owner was my former owner. She was never gentle. Gender has nothing to do with compassion.”
    “Do you want Anders to do it? For a big lug, he has a gentle touch.” He cleared his throat, frowned. “Or so I’ve been told.”
    I shook my head, wondering why he’d felt the need to tack on that last part. “I can take care of myself. But thank you.”
    Anders returned with a metal box full of stuff. On the top rested a bandage gun and the tube of healing gel. “We’ll leave you to settle in.” Claybourne pointed to the wall units next to the palm panel and bed, repeating what Anders had already told me. “Call me Clay. We’ll hear you no matter where we are.”
    “Okay. Thank you.”  
    The panel door slid shut and I sat there, staring at it, everything inside me frozen by the complete about-turn my life had taken. Clutching the blanket to my chest, I scooted back until my spine touched the cool wall. I had nothing but vague images of a life before slavery. Never had I had things of my own, a space of my own that didn’t come with a lock. Did I believe them about the lock?
    After scrambling off the bed, I walked slowly to the door and let my palm hover over the panel. Holding my breath, I pushed my hand forward and the door slid open.
    I stepped into the empty passageway, taking in the flat, metallic walls, the ceiling beams with the thin line of lighting down the middle. Walking to the end of the passageway, I counted five doors before I reached what Anders had called a galley. Inside, I found wall unit simulators and three booths with tables and cushioned seating for four at each. My owner had preferred freshly cooked foods served by slaves, but my former owner had used a simulator. Suddenly realizing how thirsty I was, I walked back into the passageway, looking for someone to ask permission, but I stopped one step beyond the doorway.
    I didn’t need permission .
    Heady with that knowledge, I returned to the simulator and programmed water. The cool liquid felt like a blessing on my parched throat. I stared at the simulator, my hand hovering again. I bit my lip. Before I could lose my nerve, I programmed a bowl of soup and boldly chose a tube of Fagra wine.
    I took my treasures and scurried back to my room before shutting the door and scooting back onto the bunk again with the bowl in my lap. I’d had Fagra wine once when one of the government officials decided I was too rigid and needed loosening up. I never forgot the taste of that wine—it turned sweet at the back of the throat. Nothing, nothing , made me feel that good before or since. I took a small sip and closed my eyes in pleasure as the flavors exploded on my tongue, then changed as they moved down my throat. Groaning, I cradled the tube close, sniffed it. The spicy, fruity scent tickled my memory.
    Another fuzzy image coalesced. A freckled woman laughing and sitting in a big man’s lap as he painted her nose with the tip of a paintbrush. She sipped from a blue-stemmed glass and shared the wine with him in a kiss. She set the glass down next to a plate of crisp, blue Kithran leaves, and I sneaked over to sniff the food and the wine, loving the scent of Fagra berries. Seeing me, the woman brightened her smile as she held her arms out.
    I remembered the feeling of safety in their arms and the way the food had tasted when she shared it with me.
    Eyes flying open, I sat up straight. Did they have Kithran foods programmed into that simulator? Some simulators could be stocked with real fruits and vegetables too. I scrambled off the bed, careful not to spill the soup and set the tube and bowl on the small table bolted into the wall next to my bunk. I opened the door, peeked