1.10

By the time the Ombra Prime Sunkeepers disappeared into subspace, the Federation’s 11th fleet had done the same, leaving the battlespace around Thalassar to the PDR. Only the scattered remains of Starlancers and Wraith Reiters gave any indication of the conflict.

Vae remained motionless, hands frozen over her gaping mouth, eyes unblinking, watching the black void where Ombra Prime ships had just been seconds earlier. 

She had never before seen a Sunkeeper in person.

Few ever did outside the Ombra star zone. Fewer still ever forgot the moment they did see one. The sleek lines, sharp curves, built as tall as they were wide. Like an exotic flower held in an insect’s mandible – four curving pincers aimed forward. Strength and beauty as one. The bright white trimmed in glimmering gold looked as Vae had imagined a star in its main sequence up close.

The advanced technology of Ombra Prime warships bothered her less than the rarity of their appearance. That the fleet-wide address was spoken personally by Ombra Prime’s Armada Admiral Ibra Zjun sent a shiver across Vae’s shoulders. 

“Get a salvage team out there to clear the debris field.”

Vae heard Korvic’s command as if he was distant, standing on the surface of Thalassar. 

Then, slowly, reality returned to her senses. 

“Watch scopes for any channels reopening,” Korvic said. “The retreat could be a hoax.”

“I do not believe it is,” Andar said absently to the empty space before them.

Korvic’s voice continued over the fleetwide comms. “Amaj, are you in a position to escort Sorenna’s shuttle?”

“Can do,” she replied in her bubbly tone. “Sundance moving into position now. Watch our six.”

Vae shifted her eyes to Andar, unsure of what to do in their compromised situation.

Andar did not turn away from the observation window. 

“You’re good, Amaj,” Korvic said. “No activity on scope. All signs clear. Once Sorenna is on board, you fall back to the rear beside the Chrysalis. No dilly-dallying.”

A pop of bubblegum resounded over the comms. “Korvic, when have you ever known me to dilly or dally?”

“Daily,” he said. “Now let’s cut the chatter. All ships, I want a sitrep on personnel, weapons, and integrity ASAP.”

Fleetwide comms went quiet, and the Chrysalis bridge crew was already back to work – Kennon ensuring the scope stayed clear; Banks reaching out to each department for Korvic’s report; Dex compiling his own post-battle report for the Captain. 

And Andar, staring at the black void, in the direction of the Ombra star zone. 

With uncertainty still clouding her thinking, Vae walked to the Captain’s seat and lowered herself into it. 

Andar’s prediction had come true – The Federation is occupying Ombra space in the aftermath of Valeric Lendrov’s death. None of it felt real to her. It was as if the Chrysalis had returned from the core into a nightmare realm, and the only thing more frightening than staying was going back.

Vae paged Ksenija to return to the bridge once the Strix flight recovery cycle was complete, and then told Nvona to keep troubleshooting the shield flux problem but not to start tearing anything apart just yet.

She looked to Andar once again. “What’s our plan now?”

It took a moment before he turned to her. “I have not figured that out yet,” he said softly, almost with regret. “Likely, we will be asked to stay and protect Thalassar until more fleets can be mobilized. We have lost almost the entire 9th.”

Vae ran her palm across her sweaty forehead. All air vacated her lungs in a sigh of sheer exasperation. All she wanted to do was get the ship fixed and leave. Go home and see her father again. Patch everything up before another deployment. 

He might have received the letter she sent by now – just five words. It would not take long to clear the subspace relay checkpoints. Their first communication in at least a year. She had to follow up soon and not leave him wondering why she chose to reach out. She had to let him know. She had to tell him in person. 

Surely, they would not be thrust back into a third deployment. Not with a compromised ship. Not after successfully striking Liber. Vae could think of no other assignment that would warrant fresh leave for her and the crew.  

Bootfalls on the floor tiles jostled Vae from her internal debate. She looked up and saw Andar slowly pacing back and forth, one hand on his chin, his eyes down and wrestling with a tormenting mystery.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

Andar circled toward Vae. “The Federation’s strategy has historically been blunt force. They win through overwhelming presence, not through this kind of…” He didn’t even have a word for it.

Vae had seen enough combat to understand where he was coming from. The superior strength of the Wraith Reiters often forced the PDR to rely on clever tactics more than direct confrontation. 

“It is…” Andar searched for the word. “Audacious. In a way they never are. If they are willing to seize Ombra Prime through such a carefully constructed ploy, then…”

Andar shook his head, and then shook it again with more certainty, as if frightened to admit out loud that defeat had been prescribed for the Planetary Democratic Republic. 

“But we have the trans-core drive, “Vae said to convince herself as much as him. 

“And no shields,” he said, unconvinced.

Vae sat silently in the cold truth of his reply. 

Andar, head still shaking almost imperceptibly, turned back to the darkness, saying, “Who in the Federation could have possibly thought of this?”

_________________________

Rane’s cell comms pinged just as he placed the drink order.

A letter from Shay.

Written several days prior, it had taken longer than normal to clear subspace security – likely, he thought, because of the conflict at Thalassar. 

The Erania star zone was far enough away that he could enjoy several pints with his buddies, but close enough that he still worried for Shay’s safety. 

Even before he decrypted the message, his heart ached for his lover who was stationed on Etheris, in the same star zone – so close, but not nearly close enough. 

My Rane,

I have to be short because things are developing quickly here and I won’t be able to get a long message through without it being flagged. Liber was struck. They’re saying it was a PDR Starlancer. I don’t know how this could be possible, but it has thrown the whole station into a frenzy. I don’t know how or if this will affect your OP gambit. Just be prepared for the SecCon to course correct. I will listen closely for developments and send whatever info I can. I am counting down the months, weeks, and days until I am with you again, and I pray this Liber incident does not interfere with our scheduled leaves. Even if there is further delay, we will have our family. Nothing will stop us. I am determined, and I love you. 

–Your Shay 

PS: How do you like Edwin for a boy, and Winifred for a girl? 

Rane couldn’t think about baby names, not while Shay wasn't even pregnant yet. He could only stare at the decrypted message, dumbstruck by the news of a Liber attack. 

That’s not possible…

The phrase repeated over and over his mind as he tried to make sense of the intel, but it always slowly circled back to the same conclusion – it wasn’t possible. 

But Shay’s intel was never wrong.

“First round’s on me.”

Rane, jostled out of his personal puzzle, turned to find Mickey the bartender smiling as he pushed the three pint glasses of dark brown ale toward Rane. 

“Thanks, Mickey.” Rane slipped his comms into his pocket. “One day, you’ll actually let me pay for a drink.”

“Not as long as you guys keep us safe. The least I can do.”

Rane smiled and nodded his thanks as he gathered the three drinks together, clasped them between his hands, and carefully carried them to the small corner booth where Duncan and Cade were waiting.

The drinks were set down, Rane expertly spilling nothing, and distributed to his friends. He slid into the booth on Duncan’s side, still unable to shake the news from Shay.

“The fuck are you thinking about now?” Duncan asked. “It’s beer-o-clock, Rane.” 

“Are we chugging,” Cade asked, taking his glass.

“Wouldn’t be right without Shay,” Rane said, his mind still absent.

In a subdued tone, Duncan added, “Or Shennon.” He stared quietly into his beer.

Squeezing Duncan’s shoulder, Rane said to the table, “Four months. That’s when Shay and I get our leave. When we’re together again, we’ll chug for Shennon.”

He finished by raising his glass, which was toasted by Duncan and Cade.

All three men sipped their beers. 

The place was loud, crowded, with old architecture, constructed a few hundred years prior when buildings were still made by stacking bricks. A dive. Not a spot for officers, but not a place Rane or Duncan could ever let go of – the Old Broadstreet Tavern. Somehow, it had survived the entirety of the war and everything that came before.

And hopefully, Rane thought, everything that came next. But for the first time in more years than he could remember, Rane had no idea what was coming next.

As he sipped his bitter Eranian ale, a creeping dread nestled in his gut. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but the Liber news scared him. He wasn’t afraid for his own sake, but for Shay’s. 

To compound his personal torment, he could also not divulge the information to Duncan or Cade just yet. Not until he learned more, especially since the news from Liber was still classified. He couldn’t guess what the clearance level was, but it was far above his own rank, and nowhere within sight of Shay’s.

He smiled to himself as he drew another sip. “Determined” was the word Shay used for herself, but Rane knew that was much too small a word. 

She was a miracle.

And Rane knew it would take a miracle to win the war if the PDR could really and truly infiltrate deep into Federation space completely undetected and attack a critical quantum fusion core production facility.

_________________________

Another unseasonably warm spring morning in Usona City, as if the planet itself was trying to forget the winter it had endured.

Hollace wore a striped t-shirt and slacks – her typical business-casual office attire – and elected to carry her green leather jacket on the walk between bus rides. The bit of sea glass was nestled in her right front pants pocket, uncomfortable but safe and close.

Working nearly every day of the year, it often felt strange to have time off for the occasional holiday. Spending a week away from the Times had her feeling like she had stepped onto another world. She’d never been off Usona, but she assumed that’s what it would have felt like if she had. 

But now, after immersing herself into the life of the Progress Party candidate Maren Whitlock, both her public and private personas, returning to work had Hollace feeling off. 

She’d showered and dressed that morning trying not to think of what it would be like to walk through the doors of the 7th floor and see Martin’s desk empty. She had held herself together as best as she could so far that morning. Thinking of Whitlock helped. Thinking of Slick helped. Thinking of her actual election assignment, current president Halden Thorpe, helped a little. 

Checking her cell comms for the day’s news also helped. It was more than two hours before the Usona Stock Exchange was set to open, but market futures plunged deep in the red on reports of the 11th fleet’s retreat from planet Thalassar. 

Hollace rode the second bus downtown, trying to think over the cacophony of the bus windows rattling as her gaze passed Whitlock election signs posted everywhere. No doubt lingered in her thoughts as to how losing Thalassar would affect Thorpe approval ratings. And Whitlock would wreck him in the primary and become the party’s official candidate for president.

How could this one lady have so much power?

It made no sense, knowing what Hollace knew. Others would look at her and see a politician who became well-known by adopting popular policy positions, but they would not see the trail of crimes, the skeletons in her closet, the clandestine machinations one might undertake if they were desperate enough to hold real power. 

Hollace gazed through the layer of scum-haze on the bus window, wondering what “real power” even meant. If Whitlock could orchestrate a series of “accidents” like some kind of governmental serial killer and not only get away with it, but have no one even question it…

The bus brakes whined and hissed to a stop while trundling over potholes deep enough to swallow a small animal. When the movement settled, Hollace and a few other passengers exited the bus. 

Standing in a clutch of passersby, it seemed as if no one cared about losing Thalassar. Maybe they just hadn’t heard the news yet – the reports were still fresh. Or perhaps they simply did not feel like mourning a loss to the same degree they celebrated a victory. 

The war went on, and so did everyone else with their daily lives.

Hollace started again on foot, jacket slung over her arm as she went straight for her morning coffee. 

There were three cafes within a short walk of her last stop before the Times. This morning, she went to the nearest, just around the corner. For the day she was expecting to have, she wanted caffeine inside her at once. 

She often avoided this particular cafe, dubbed Usona Brew, as it drew larger crowds given its proximity to the bus stop. Hollace filed in line behind three others, thankful the wait wasn’t going to be as long as she feared. 

She stepped forward one spot, thinking of what kind of info she could dig up on Whitlock. Who had even been assigned to cover her campaign? Probably Nolan. He was a bit arrogant and Hollace didn’t always appreciate working together, but if he could feed her info, somehow without knowing what she wanted it for…

Her stomach rumbled. She thought she might treat herself to a danish to go with her coffee. U-Brew (as it was known) had better breakfast options than most other places around, at least for on the go.

She advanced through the line one more spot, thinking of Slick, hoping Terrance didn’t feed him too much, hoping the little guy wasn’t upset that she had been gone.

Absently, Hollace’s eyes were meandering about the tiny little shack. The customer line snaked straight in and clockwise around a shelf with random knickknacks and curios, stickers and magnets and socks and anything they could think to print the word Usona onto, before customers were spit back out into the street through the door they came in.    

She caught her reflection in what she assumed was a napkin holder, sitting roughly eye-level – and the distortions of her face reminded her of how silly Slick looked when his cheeks were puffed out and his little round mouth slowly opened and closed.  

Almost without thinking, Hollace began moving her face to match her vision of the black betta, sucking her cheeks in and puckering her lips to mimic–

“Miss?”

The smiling voice from beside the register yanked her from her trance instantly. 

Hollace found a cute barista grinning, not unkindly. "It’s for sale, if you’d like. 3 for 20." He pointed to the source of Hollace’s reflection.

Heat flooded Hollace's cheeks. "Sorry, I’m so sorry," she mumbled through an embarrassing smile, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.

“Just a drink, then?”

Hollace shuffled to the front of the line, looked the handsome stranger in the eye, and put on her best face-saving smile. “I’m gonna need your biggest, strongest coffee.” 

“One of those days,” he said, nodding. “It’ll just be a minute.” The barista, whose nametag read Leo, turned to prepare the beverage. 

Once she was out of his eyeline, Hollace cringed so hard that her cheeks nearly cramped.

Oh god, Hollace…could you be any more of a dork? 

She fumbled for her credit card and turned back around when her order arrived. 

“Big and strong, just as you like,” Leo said as he set the cup on the counter. 

“I do,” Hollace said as she tapped to pay, immediately regretting the connotation of her reply. “I mean…” She could think of nothing else to say to recover from this moment other than, “I’m not always this weird. I…I’m pretty normal…sometimes.”

Fuck, Hollace! What was that?!

Leo smiled again. “Everyone’s normal until you get to know them. Enjoy your coffee! I’ll see you next time.”

Hollace smiled while cringing on the inside, wishing she could restart the whole day from the beginning. But since she couldn’t, she would have to avoid that particular establishment for the foreseeable future.

Grabbing the cup and beelining for the door, she could not leave U-Brew fast enough. 

Fleeing around the corner, big and strong coffee in one hand and her jacket in the other, Hollace wanted to be nowhere else than back in her bed. 

Oh no…oh god…And he was flirting with me! Oh no god oh – wait, was he flirting?

Her sneakers were slapping the sidewalk as sheer embarrassment and regret propelled her along, not noticing the hologram billboards at first, not picking up on surrounding conversations right away.

It wasn’t until she came to the next street corner and stopped to wait for clear crossing that she felt a change in the energy of the citygoers. Lifting her eyes, she spotted breaking news reports illuminating the hologram billboards all around…

Thalassar had been officially lost.

Stock futures continued falling.

President Thorpe’s approval ratings hit a new low.

Whitlock surges in polls.

No one seemed to care. They continued their conversations, stared at their cell comms, and went about their morning commute. Only Hollace paused. Something about this felt different. 

Everything around her, around them all, looked to be coming apart, one piece at a time. Not just the city, but in the United Empyreal Federation as a whole – from the war to the president, load-bearing pillars were under stress, from within and without.

She wanted to scream at each of the dozen passersby to look up, pay attention to what was happening, add up all the details to see what was happening right in front of them.

As Hollace watched those around her, her thoughts became troubled by an encroaching dread that had her questioning if she had been one of those very folks zoned in on their daily life, shutting out the finer details of politics and society and welcoming them only by choice.

Hollace stared up, wondering what the billboards had been displaying all the previous days of the year when she strode right on past, not caring like everyone else. 

After all, it was just news.

The elevator chimed and opened its doors to the 7th floor of the Usona Times. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Hollace stepped into a world without Martin Webb. 

She crossed short cubicle walls where co-workers welcomed her with a slight wave or a head nod, saying little as they were immersed in their work. Or reluctant to tread upon the waters of grief. 

Hollace fought the urge to look toward Martin’s desk and chose to look at the clock instead. She was late, as usual. For how much had changed, some things stayed the same. 

She crossed the aisle and turned the corner, tracing her normal path to her desk. She couldn’t get there without passing Martin’s work station, and her eyes fell upon his empty cubicle.

Her heart swelled in her chest and she hurried to her work area, setting her coffee down in an uncontrolled jerk, dropping her jacket on the floor and gripping the back of her chair in white knuckles. 

After an interval of time, she rolled the chair out and sat, powering up her work computer and downing a huge swig of coffee as her heart rate finally slowed. She closed her eyes to recenter herself.

“Hey…”

Hollace spun in a start, heart rate back up.

Terrence picked up her leather jacket from the floor and handed it to her hesitantly. “You dropped this.”

Hollace blew out a long exhale through pursed lips, and then thanked him. She slung it over the back of her chair where it normally hung. 

“I fed Slick while you were out,” Terrence said. 

“Thanks.” Hollace rolled in her chair to the window where the fish tank sat, kissing her finger and touching it to the tank. “You didn’t give him too much?”

“No, just a little, like you always do.”

She spun back to him. “What about the birds? They didn’t bother him, did they?”

“No, I didn’t see any.”

Hollace exhaled in relief and thanked him again. 

“Big man see you yet?” Terrence asked. 

Hollace shook her head. “Why? What did I do?”

“There’s a medal ceremony tomorrow he wants us at. Nolan will be there, too. It’s a big deal, apparently.”

“Awesome.” Hollace sucked down the dregs of her coffee and set the hollow cut aside. “Medals for what?”

“Taking Thalassar.”

Hollace’s brow narrowed at Terrence. “Taking Thalassar…?”

“Yeah…why?”

Pushing herself up on her chair’s armrests, Hollace lifted her chin to see across the room. A news report played on the screen mounted on the central pillar, the same report she saw on her walk – Planet Thalassar Retaken by PDR Forces.

She lowered herself back down, turning her eyes to Terrence and pointing silently in the direction of the screen, her expression defined by confusion. 

Terrence shrugged. “I don’t know, I just work here.”

They both turned at the sound of Oscar’s door opening, and Terrence instinctively went back to work. 

Hollace found Oscar standing in front of his office looking at her. He waved for her to come. 

Looking for one last sip, Hollace slurped the remaining droplets from within her U-Brew coffee, and made for her boss’s office. 

Inside the office, she sat. Oscar closed the door. He rounded his desk and took his seat, folding his hands across the glossy cherrywood finish. 

“How are you doing?” he said.

Hollace fidgeted with her fingers in her lap, eyes down. “Uh…I…alright, I guess.”

“Good. A lot is happening. I need you, Hollace.”

She raised her eyes and gazed at Oscar through fallen strands of hair. “Okay. I’m here.”

“On time, if possible.”

Her gaze fell back to her lap but only for a moment before she brushed her hair aside, looked her boss in the eye, and promised, “I’ll…try.”

Oscar’s chair creaked as he settled further back into it. “Reese is breaking my ass over this Thalassar business. He wants full coverage of the gala tomorrow night, so Thorpe is on pause for now.”

“The medal ceremony?”

“A lot of big money will be there. Balfour, Orman. Even Jasper.”

Hollace nearly blurted out ‘Jasper Carmichael?!’ but thankfully sat in silent shock. 

Why would the owner of the Times be attending a celebration for losing Thalassar? 

Nothing made sense anymore. 

“It’s a big fucking deal,” Oscar grumbled. “I’m putting you and Nolan on it. Terrence will give you the shots for your writeup. When you’re done, come and see me and we’ll figure out what to do next.”

“What about Thorpe?”

“On pause.” That was all he said. 

Hollace’s eyes darted from Oscar to the wall beside her to the window to her hands and back to Oscar. “Can I ask the obvious question?”

“It’s bullshit, yes.”

“I mean…we did lose Thalassar. Right?”

“Only the battle. Not the war.”

“So, like…what are the medals for?”

Oscar grunted. “They’re for the event that you are going to attend and write about pleasantly and not question. These big wigs are the largest weapons manufacturers and suppliers for the war effort, and they want bigger contracts to supply the armada with the capability of taking Thalassar for good. So, make sure you dress nicely.”

Hollace nodded, fingers still fidgeting. 

“And comb your hair,” he added.

She brushed hair from her eyes again, wondering the going price for a comb. She never owned one, and has thrown out her hair brush after shaving her head on a dare. 

As Hollace returned to her desk, she found it no less difficult to look away from the empty cubicle that used to be the work station of the closest friend she’d ever had.

Slumping back into her chair, Hollace watched Slick swim lazily in his tank overlooking Usona City, content with the matters of his own little world.

_________________________

“I’m not going to be lectured by the one who welcomed this occupation–“

“I did not welcome anything of the sort!” Darvi’s explosion cut through PDR Ambassador Enmar Gondon’s accusation. “You sat in the House Chamber listening clearly as I make strict assurances of our commitment to neutrality, and I stood in this very office just yesterday to make the same case to–”

“Conveniently non-falsifiable,” Enmar said to interrupt. He stood bathed in scorching light from the room’s only window.

Jalir, seated behind his desk – the only one in the room sitting – announced in a leisurely tone, “That will be enough personal affronts.” 

Without shifting her glare from Enmar, Darvi stabbed a finger toward Jalir, her robes snapping with the motion. “Jalir was sitting right there when I reminded him that this behavior stands in strict violation of the Jakar Accords–” She turned her aim on him. “–and he sat there just like he is now, like a slug on a hot stone–”

“Enough, Minister Chal,” Jalir’s voice said with a raised voice.

“That is most certainly not enough.” She shot a glare at Enmar from behind fallen curls. “And I’m not finished with you.”

Enmar scoffed once more, rolling his eyes and visibly restraining himself with agitated movements to keep from voicing any more of an argument. 

Darvi slapped her palms flat on the black marble of Jalir’s desk, hovering over him like a stormcloud, each word rushing out of her in a torrential downpour. “As the Minister of Interstellar Affairs, the defense of neutrality is my paramount responsibility, so any unilateral measures which jeopardize that neutrality is most definitely a personal affront, and I will not be expected to allow this blatant antagonism to occur freely, as doing so would be a renunciation of every vow and every oath taken to protect our planet’s neutrality – and make no mistake, I will protect it!”

The declaration of Darvi’s commitment echoed in the circular office of the Prime Minister, temporarily silencing all argument. Only the sound of her catching her breath was heard. 

From near the corner, halfway between Darvi and the door, Triss watched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, head down to avoid meeting any hostile glances. 

“Even from you, Jalir.” Slowly huffing for breath, Darvi turned back to the PDR ambassador. “Do not accuse me without evidence.”

Triss lifted only her eyes to see Enmar nodding assuredly in a manner that Triss translated as hostile. 

“Then I shall accuse you with evidence,” he said. “Prime Minister Yant will serve as my witness that your scorn, Minister Chal, has not yet fallen upon the ambassador of the planet sending its warships to your homeworld right now.”

Darvi jostled her hair from her eyes with a little jerk of her head. “I resent the accusation–”

“Observation,” Enmar said. 

“Call it whatever you want, it is an insult to the only ambassador in this room who has been cooperative in attempting to resolve this conflict.”

Enmar nearly laughed out loud but miraculously managed to stop himself. “Please, Darvi. We are all aware that Miss Chapelton is little more than a mouthpiece for the Empyreal Federation Armada.” 

Darvi stepped closer to Enmar, her words spilling forth before her flowing robes settled from her stride. “Ambassador Chapelton came into this room not with terms but with information. You entered with vulgar accusations. Tell me why I should resent cooperation more than hostility.”

“Because you’re not stupid, Darvi.” Enmar looked down at her when she stopped less than a foot away. She stood barely taller than the red star insignia pinned to his PDR suit jacket.

Triss observed from a wedge of shadow as her lover stared up at the PDR ambassador wordlessly. She knew that Darvi defending her too strongly would stoke the flames of Enmar’s suspicion. Being right about the wrong thing, in Triss’s situation, would be virtually indistinguishable from being right about the right thing.

Tighter, Triss held herself. Watching Darvi fight to say nothing felt agonizing. Triss rubbed her upper arms and mustered the will to do something to ease the moment, to lift the stress bearing down on her and her desert lily. 

Triss stepped into the light, arms at her sides. “I’ve said everything I know.”

In the silence, her soft voice wisping like a breeze over still dunes. All eyes turned toward the statuesque mouthpiece from the Federation. 

“I don’t want this occupation to happen,” Triss said quietly. “All I can do from here is advocate for a quick withdrawal, and I have done that. What more do you want me to do?”

She finished with her question aimed at the PDR ambassador. 

In the quietude that followed, Darvi positioned herself between the two ambassadors, giving them equal distance. She spoke like still water; the storm had passed. “We are in this room to seek resolution. I will work toward that goal with anyone willing to walk that path. I don’t care about circumstances beyond that, I care about peace. I care about sovereignty and neutrality, and I swear to you both that I will never live to see the day this war comes to Ombra Prime, because I will give my life to prevent that from happening.” 

Darvi’s eyes shifted from one ambassador to the other before settling on Enmar. 

“No war will destroy what we have built here.”

Her gaze then turned to Triss. 

“If a lily can grow in the desert, we can be free.”

Triss saw a softening in Darvi’s dark eyes, but her posture remained firm. Triss had to look away as a lump caught in her throat and she craved nothing more than to hold the woman in front of her as tightly as possible, because in that moment, it felt like their future together was a real thing, something she could hold onto and never lose. 

Enmar cut between the two women on his way toward the door. He turned back before exiting, and said, “I hope, Minister Chal, that you have more than words, because fancy speeches will hardly suffice in driving away the Federation fleet.”

He pulled the door open and stepped through.

“Where are you going?” Darvi asked with spite on her tongue.

Enmar turned back once more. “To do everything in my power to keep you sovereign. Please do not disappoint me, Darvi, by doing less to save your own world than I.”

He was gone before any comment or protest could be voiced. 

“It appears,” Jalir said, “That this meeting is adjourned.”

Triss met eyes with Darvi for the briefest second, a painfully incomplete moment, as Darvi moved toward Jalir’s desk. 

“We will give Federation ships 52 hours to depart,” Darvi told him.

“And you have decided this unilaterally?”

“If that’s how things are done around here, then yes, that is my decision. If not, then tell me why two days is insufficient. Thalassar is close and Erania is even closer. A single fleet could rendezvous and depart within a day if necessary.” She turned to Triss. “Isn’t that right?”

Triss nodded. “They should not need two days.”

“Very well,” Jalir said as if granting the concession bored him. “See that your fleet does not linger, Ambassador.”

Triss nodded again. She turned for the door only once Darvi had passed her – the sweet perfumed scent of her desert lily compelling Triss to follow close behind.

“And Ambassador…”

Darvi and Triss both paused in the threshold of the open door. 

Jalir motioned for Triss to approach. 

Triss and Darvi exchanged another fragment of a glance, just one small piece of a shattered whole. 

“See me in my office when you’re through,” Darvi said to her. “There is much to discuss.”

Darvi left Triss alone with the Prime Minister.

Triss couldn’t make out if Jalir wore a smirk or a smile as he gestured again for her to approach, a bit more eagerly this time.

It took her only a few strides from her long legs before the Federation mouthpiece stood before the round desk. She could still see Darvi’s handprints on the glossy black marble.

“Tell me, Miss Chapelton…what are you doing here?” 

Triss swallowed as the question caught her off guard. “What…I’m…”

Jalir folded his hands on the desktop, eyes narrowed at the willowy woman on the other side. “Come now, Triss. Let us speak freely. Your nation’s warships are on their way to my sovereign world. There were no such transgressions under Ambassador Vale, whom you served as Embassy Counselor.”

No matter how much she swallowed, Triss’s throat remained dry. She fought against the desire to look over her shoulder and hope to find Darvi there.

“Ambassador Gondon has accused you of being a mouthpiece for the Federation, and I must say,his accusation is not without merit. So…” He spread his hands open with a question, “What is your role in all this?”

Triss stared at the sweaty mark left by her lover on the desk – two hands, now absent. The same hands that hold Triss close on their stolen nights and secret mornings. 

“You may have fooled Darvi,” Jalir said with an almost exaggerated confidence. “But you cannot fool me.” 

Stammering in a whisper, Triss absently brushed the outline of her lover’s hand with one finger. The ghost of a touch. She reminded herself to look at Jalir before managing to say, “I am the ambassador. I am here to do the work of keeping the peace.”

“A peaceful occupation, then.”

“No…” Triss pulled her hand away from the desktop, wiping her perspiring hands on the sides of her white sheath dress. “I don’t want an occupation.”

“It appears nobody does. Nevertheless, the ships are on their way.” His ringed hands settled against the marble. “How can that be?”

“I…There’s – there’s only so much I can do.”

“Then do it,” he commanded. “All of it. 52 hours after the fleet arrives, they depart. Now go tell that to your handler.” 

Triss threaded her hands together meekly, head down as she turned and made for the exit as quickly as she could without it looking like she was fleeing. 

At the door which Enmar had left propped open, Triss turned her brown eyes to the smug figure seated behind black marble. “I don’t have a handler. I am here because I want to be. And I want to live here as I have been, in peace.”

Jalir gave no expression and said nothing except, “Close the door on your way out…Ambassador.”

Triss tugged at the door, and then tugged harder to pull the heavy oaken door shut.

Coughing little coughs from her dry throat, Triss now hurried as quickly as he heels would carry her, down the glass corridor, around a woodworked corner, down half a flight of wide, curving steps, and through another passage that spit her out into the skybridge overlooking Ombra City.

The hot, white light of day instantly warmed her chill shoulders. She sucked dry gulps of desert air, pulse racing from her final words to the Prime Minister. 

She couldn’t believe she said what she did, but she had to say something to defend herself. Darvi wouldn’t always be there, and could only press so hard when she was. Clayton was right – she had to toughen up.

Triss leaned against the wall of the House of Parliament – 30 stories in the air, snaking above the city. A world above the world.

She turned her eyes skyward, squinting in the harshness of day, watching for shadows descending. Her nation’s warships had not arrived, Not yet.

Few crossed her path, given it was the middle of a working day, and before long, Triss found herself turning away from the warm breeze and re-entering the House of Parliament, making her way toward the nearest elevator.

She turned a woodworked corner and stopped when her heart jumped into her throat at the sight of Darvi waiting for her. 

Immediately, Darvi closed the distance on Triss, a wounded expression on her face. “Triss…my love…”

They drew closer, a breath away, but halted before either one pulled the other closer. Not here. Not in public. 

Triss held her gaze on Darvi, saying nothing but feeling everything. 

Their fingers touched. A subtle graze. 

They both pulled away. 

Not here.

“I couldn’t wait,” Darvi said. “I’m sorry I left you.”

“Lily…” Triss’s eyes fell to the floor. “I’m scared.”

“I am too.” Darvi shot a glance at both ends of the corridor to ensure they were still alone. “Come to my office. Come to me, Triss.”

Triss looked up at the sound of her name, and watched Darvi flick hair from her eyes as she always did. 

Placing her tattooed hands on Triss’s cheeks, Darvi whispered, “Come to me,” and then pulled away, disappearing around the corner before anyone could spot them together. 

Triss leaned her back against the wall, clutching at her heart as it galloped in her chest. 

A stranger entered the hall and approached her with concern. “Miss…are you alright?”

“Yes.” Triss pushed herself upright. “The air is…it’s too hot.”

“You best stay inside for now,” the stranger said. “Stay safe from the heat.”

With a parting nod, Triss followed in the footsteps of her desert lily.

_________________________

Hollace had spent the morning catching up on what she’d missed while being out for a week.

After poring over the morning briefing, she drudged through a backlog of emails, scheduling notes, policy updates – mindless administrative work that thankfully required no emotional energy. 

Three vending machine coffees later, she pulled the files on the medal recipients for the next evening’s ceremony – or “gala”, as she was told to call it. Vice Admiral Roland Scothern of the 11th fleet; Captain Mase Shipley of the Wraith Reiter Vindicator, 11th fleet; pinned by Admiral Clayton Faraway of the Legionnaire Fleet, retired.

A lengthy list of strangers followed – lieutenants and commanders and captains she’d never heard of before. The only name she recalled was Admiral Faraway, strictly from overheard jokes referring to him as “Far-away”, which he apparently took unkindly. 

“Hollace, you good?”

She peeled her eyes away from the green hologram monitor and spun in her chair to see Oscar leaning over the short cubicle wall. 

“Hollace good,” she said. “Hollace hungry.”

Oscar handed her a sheet of paper with even more names printed on it, seemingly oblivious to her jokes. “This does not leave the office. It’s the attendance sheet for tomorrow’s gala.”

She took the paper and glanced over it, looking for one name in particular.

“Leave it on my desk if you go out for lunch,” he said.

Hollace looked up to him and smiled. “Hollace happy.”

“Hollace work,” Oscar said with his trademark grumble before leaving her alone.

Her eyes snapped back to the list and scanned it from top to bottom, hoping to find the name–

She gasped when she saw it.

Senator Maren Whitlock of Planet Altevis, Presidential Candidate, Progress Party.

Staring at the printout, eyes wide, lips curled into a smile, she said, “Hollace very happy.” 

After a boring meeting about the event logistics with Oscar, Terrence, and Nolan, the rest of the day belonged to Hollace.

She’d put off lunch after receiving the attendance list. Senator Whitlock had claimed ownership of her every thought. 

Hollace sat at her desk in the late afternoon, staring at the low sun caught between two skyscrapers. In the foreground, Slick swam, oblivious to the greater world around him.

She leaned her elbows on her knees, munching on a ham and cheese sandwich from the vending machine, shifting her attention from the outside world to inside the fish tank. 

“There’s a big world out there, Slick,” she said to the betta. “Not too big for us little fishies, but still big and scary.”

Most of the office had cleared out by the time she scarfed down the last crust of the sandwich, and her attention went fully to her computer.

In the office, she had access to internal documents and databases, information not released to the public, not found in the library. These files, innocuous on their own, were often utilized for research purposes and fact-checking. The Times kept files on all notable figures that often appeared in the press. 

Including Senators. 

Senator Maren Whitlock had an extensive file.

An hour sifting through details unimportant to her independent investigation bore the precious fruit she had been searching for. The sweetest variety. 

Every piece of the puzzle Hollace had been assembling in her time off was true. All the connections with strange occurrences, all the campaign funding, all the lobbying money she happily took. 

And more. 

Lunches with banking magnates, dinners with finance oligarchs. Flight manifests from her innumerable vacations to Ecothra and Mennarone. Unpublished photos of handshakes with GDI directors, videos of toasting with Traditionalist Party leaders. 

There seemed to be no pocket this woman’s hands weren’t in.

Hollace leaned back in her seat, fingers threaded through her unkempt hair. A thousand questions flooded through her. 

What is she planning? What is her goal? Why is no one doing anything about this obvious corruption? 

Worst of all – what will happen if she becomes the president? 

Hands still on her head, Hollace spun her chair in slow semi-circles, pondering if she would rather have been right or wrong. Being right meant the Federation was actively being consumed from within; being wrong meant that Martin died for nothing. 

She spun the chair a little further to glimpse the empty desk, formerly occupied by Martin Webb.

“It can’t be for nothing,” she said out loud, but to herself. To Martin. 

The thing Hollace felt the most proud for living in the United Empyreal Federation was its free press. It was a check on power running rampant. A clear voice to inform the people of the truth. A light shining through the fog of propaganda. 

Hypothetically, someone like Maren Whitlock could not succeed within that system. Not unless they captured the levers of power to shield themselves from consequence, and silent any voices that spoke the truth.

Whitlock couldn’t capture the whole Times. She could take away one person’s voice and empty their cubicle, but not the freedom of the press itself. 

Hollace still had her voice, her cubicle, and all the information she needed to shine a light on extreme corruption.

She had everything she needed to ensure Maren Whitlock would never become president.

Martin had only compiled the evidence. GDI may have taken his work material, but they did not touch the internal files of the Times. All the evidence was still there, waiting to be re-compiled. Waiting to be released to the world. 

Once it was out there, it would be known. That’s when the people would learn, they would see, they would reject this woman and demand comeuppance. 

Until then, however, Hollace knew she had to be careful. She was in the most dangerous hour, when–

“Hollace–”

“FUCK!” Hollace startled so hard that she nearly fell from her seat. Her heart felt like it had just fallen through the floor. “Shit! Fuuuuuuuuck!”

Squeezing her shirt at the chest with both fists and exhaling long and hard, she raised her eyes to find Oscar hovering over her cubicle wall. 

“You alright?”

Hollace’s eyes fell to the floor, sucking slow, desperate breaths. “No, I’m fine.” She lifted her head and ran her hands over her hair. “I think you just took a hundred years off my life, but otherwise…”

“Sorry. Didn’t think you were still here.” He handed her a folder with a dozen sheets of paper inside. “This stays internal.”

Still short of breath, Hollace took the folder with intrigue in her emerald eyes. “What is it?”

“Your election assignment.”

Her gaze snapped up to Oscar and then back down to the folder, then up again. “Thorpe?”

“Word is he’s dropping out after losing Thalassar,” Oscar grunted. “Not official yet. His ratings are in the toilet.”

Hollace threw open the folder, wishing she would find the name Maren Whitlock inside, knowing it would never happen, but the certainty did nothing to diffuse her desire. 

Her heart finally slowed when her eyes found the name Lysander Blackmore, Admiral, Legionnaire Fleet, Retired.

“Who’s this?” she asked without looking up.

“You don’t want it?”

Hollace closed the folder and hugged it against her. “No, I do! I really do. Thank you, Oscar. Thank you.”

“He’s announcing his candidacy tonight in the Traditionalist Party. Don’t take that home. Study it when you get here in the morning.”

“I will, thank you.”

“On time.”

Hollace nodded enthusiastically, still hugging the folder. 

Oscar walked away, calling back as he went, “Hollace go home. Hollace sleep.”

Hollace smiled so hard, her cheeks hurt. An election assignment was finally hers. Not the one she wanted, but that didn’t matter. She still had all the dirt on Whitlock she needed, and tomorrow, she would see the corrupt woman in person. 

Hollace set the folder aside and gave Slick a pinch of food. 

Leaning close to the tank, she watched the little fishy eat. “Slick eat. Hollace go home. Hollace sleep,” she recited like a checklist. 

After kissing her finger, she touched the glass where Slick ate. “Tomorrow, Hollace feast.”