Omega's Edge — Volume 1: Shattered Parallax — Chapter 11
The name on the badge read HOLLACE BROOKS KIRBY. She was identified as ‘Political Reporter’ for the Usona Times. Officially, legally, that was all there was to her.
Security eyed the face on the badge and the face in front of them. Both had the same youthful face and green eyes, unkempt brown mullet hair, and the same black stud earrings that Hollace never took off. And a huge, dorky grin of a smile.
Hollace tried her best to smile normally and pretend she wasn’t nervous as hell, walking into the Usona Convention Center where she would soon come face to face with Maren Whitlock.
Convinced, security handed the badge back to her, motioned for her to step forward. Terrence and Nolan were ahead of her getting patted down by security.
Hollace clipped it onto her pants, still embarrassed by the huge cheesy grin on the badge’s photo. It was taken by Terrence in the Times break room against a plain wall at the end of last summer. All of the Times badges had to be renewed every three years, with fresh photos.
Martin had been standing behind the camera and tripod attempting to stack as many potato chips on top of Terrence’s curly blonde hair as he could without being noticed. This, of course, had Hollace cracking up hard but trying to hide it as desperately as she could.
This went on for nearly 20 minutes until Terrence had half a dozen chips on his head and Hollace stood no chance of keeping a straight face. She tried to accuse Martin of eating all her chips (she had purchased the bag from the vending machine just before the shoot) but could not get the words out in a full sentence without gasping for breath and wiping tears from her eyes.
Terrence then discovered the source of the hilarity, which only made the gag funnier to both Martin and Hollace. Another 10 minutes elapsed before Hollace could compose herself for a decent-enough photo to be taken.
Every time she saw that photo on the badge, without fail, reminded her that the prank was on her as much as it was on Terrence, as she had to keep that exaggerated smile on her photo and show it to strangers every day for three years.
“Miss.”
Hollace found the female security guard the voice belonged to – a sharp, firm voice. No-nonsense. Her fond memories of Martin faded in the face of reality.
The woman told Hollace to step forward, and she did – discreetly concealing the purple sea glass in her hand. She could never risk being told to discard the one totem she had left from her father.
The woman patted her down more deliberately than Hollace was prepared for, then checked her work tablet.
“Good,” the woman said as she handed the tablet back, and tossed a thumb over her shoulder without even looking at Hollace.
Terrence waved for Hollace to join, and she hurried beside him, slipping the sea glass safely in her pocket.
Nolan was already walking away, business-focused. He’d been in that scenario before.
“The dignitaries will be here shortly,” Terrence said as he mounted a flash to his camera. “Press always arrives first. They love their photo-ops.”
Eyes darting about, Hollace could not take in the moment. Whitlock would be there soon. Along with Blackmore, other Admirals, CEOs, people of more status and wealth than she had ever seen in her 24 years of existence.
The convention center lobby was wider than the entire 7th floor of the Times building. Her one good pair of dress shoes sank a quarter of an inch into the plush carpeting. Every wall, dressed in flowing curtains, or decked in ornate woodworking, the old kind she almost never saw. The paint on the walls appeared untouched.
“This is wild,” she said.
And the smell – she drew a deep breath through her nostrils. It felt clean and dry on the back of her throat, almost antiseptic.
Almost…artificial. That was the only word she could find.
“Terrence, I need a favor.” Her eyes would not rest as they scanned for Whitlock.
Terrence’s concentration was on his camera settings. He replied without looking up, “What do you need?”
“Photos.”
Now he looked up with a small grin. “That’s why I’m here.”
Her darting emeralds locked in on the photographer. “Specifically…photos of Whitlock.”
Terrence set a puzzled look on her. “Don’t you have the Blackmore assignment?”
“Yes, but…” Hollace stepped closer so she could lower her voice. “This is the first event they will be seen together, right?”
Terrence nodded and shrugged in recognition.
“So,” Hollace continued, “I need to see if Whitlock is schmoozing it up with the same donors as Blackmore.”
“Schmoozing…” Terrence smirked with amusement. “Good word.”
“Whoever spends the most money usually wins the election, right?” Hollace secretly hoped that her reasoning was not as transparently fake as her confidence with security. “I just need her with the richest people. I’ll be watching Blackmore the whole time. When the debates roll around, I need to be able to tell the attacks from the truth.”
Terrence raised his eyebrows at Hollace with an unspoken question.
“This is my first election, alright?” She exhaled strongly, nervously – no performance necessary. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”
“Sure, no problem.” He was back into his camera controls. “Just Whitlock with money?”
“That’s it.”
“Yeah, no problem. I just need one favor in return.” He pointed to a spot ahead of him. “Stand there so I can get a good exposure.”
Exposure, she thought. Perfect word. Show me Whitlock exposed.
Hollace shuffled to the spot and turned back with a question in her look.
Terrence nodded. “Good, right there. Smile!”
Tilting her head, Hollace flashed a huge cheesy grin, in honor of Martin. A bright light blinked as Terrence took the test photo. Blessedly, it would not end up on her work ID.
“Wait, Hollace,” he said as he checked the image on the camera’s screen. “Didn’t the big man say something about your hair?”
Hollace threw her head back. “Awwwwwww shit.”
She looked at Terrence’s short, curly hair and assumed he didn’t carry a comb.
“I’ll be back,” she called as she hurried to the women’s restroom.
Hollace stepped into the bathroom and immediately paused, struck by the untamed opulence on display.
A women’s restroom, twice the size of her own apartment, was also furnished more nicely. There was a couch to sit on. Hollace didn’t own a couch.
The room was shinier, newer than anything she owned. How could a bathroom even smell cleaner than her own living space?
She shook her head, unkempt strands of her brown mullet shaking with it. She had no words.
At the sink, she wet her hands and began running her fingers through her hair, slicking it straight back overhead. She stared at her reflection as she worked at Oscar’s request.
“Must look prim and proper,” she said aloud in an exaggerated aristocratic tone.
Thankfully, she was alone.
Jokingly attempting Oscar’s deep, gravelly voice, she said, “Be on time. Dress nicely. Buy a comb, Hollie.”
Even her naturally husky voice could not come close to matching the deep rumble of her boss’s.
Hollace snorted, and said to her reflection in her normal tone, “You’re not my dad.”
Just about finished straightening her unruly hair, she gave her reflection one final inspection.
A toilet flushed.
The stall door swung open.
Hollace stared in frozen shock at the reflection of a woman with two red braids and a military uniform emerge.
“Oh, um…” Hollace fought off a grin of sheer embarrassment. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I thought I was alone.”
The redhead – whose name tag read RHODA SIBYL LAYTON – approached the sink beside Hollace. “It’s easy to think that sometimes.”
Hollace rubbed her wet hands vigorously over her face, slowly dying inside – caught by an enlisted member of a warship crew. She had to be more careful.
“You some kind of reporter?” Rhoda asked while washing her hands.
“Yeah, um…I…work for the Times.” Hollace dried her hands on her pants, not realizing the paper towel dispenser was right behind her. “The Usona Times.”
Rhoda smiled – perhaps in a friendly way, perhaps at the ass Hollace had made of herself. Everything about this woman appeared unremarkable, which made her impossible to read.
“You should button your blouse all the way,” Rhoda said. “Some guys out there are real creeps. Most of them, I would say.”
A troubled expression came over Hollace, and she slowly buttoned her shirt up to the collar.
Finished washing her hands, Rhoda pointed a dripping finger to Hollace.
Realizing what the gesture meant, Hollace looked behind her, then stepped aside.
“Beyond that, you don’t have anything to worry about,” Rhoda said, drying her hands. “The kinds of people out there, they won’t even notice you.”
Hollace, mouth hanging partly open, felt her chest tightening. Why, she didn’t know. She swallowed a lump in her throat, wondering why the stranger’s comment had her feeling saddened.
Maybe she really was insignificant. Maybe the little fishies didn’t matter after all.
Her jaw started quivering and she shut it tightly, and turned away, staring at the floor instead of herself in the mirror.
“But look on the bright side...” Rhoda tossed her used paper towels in the garbage container. “Nobody will notice if you disappear.”
Hollace choked down another lump, feeling smaller than ever.
This event – ”gala” – was the big fish’s pond. People like her, like Martin, had no right swimming in their waters, and would be disposed of if they became too inconvenient.
She wanted to cry.
Instead, she forced herself to look at herself – slicked back hair and buttoned-up blouse. A cleaned-up version of herself reflected back. The only way they would let her in.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers rubbing against the bit of sea glass to calm her nerves. She turned back to the redhead–
But she had disappeared.
_________________________
Sayre hated getting her photo taken.
Nevertheless, the press was unavoidable, camped out just inside the lobby of the Usona City Convention Center, cameras flashing away. They gave her more attention than those around her. She was an attractive young woman. Everyone knew it.
Dozens of camera flashes blinded her.
She squinted, shying away as she pressed inside with other crew members of the Vindicator. Not with the Captain or Vice Admiral, but with the lower ranks who had the privilege of being invited – if you made it onto the bridge, you made it onto the invite list.
But Sayre knew she would be attending whether she had ever sat on the Vindicator’s bridge or not. Surely, the daughter of retired Admiral Clayton Faraway, now Secretary of Strategic Security, would not go uninvited.
It wasn’t merit, it was a handout.
She found a tag with her name on it – SAYRE JUDE FARAWAY.
Wincing, she swiped the name tag off the table, but didn’t put it on.
Why did they have to print the full name?
Sayre hated her middle name. HATED it. Even more than she hated getting her photo taken, she despised the name – because it wasn’t hers. It was the name her father had picked out for the son she was supposed to be.
She did not hold conviction in destiny or fate, but sometimes, it became hard not to believe that the universe had other plans for her.
Searching the thickening crowd, Sayre could not find Rhoda anywhere. Part of her felt relief, that she had more time to decide if that night was the one she walked away. Another part felt dread that Rhoda had already gone without her.
And she could. Rhoda, a more homely woman, had a knack for blending in, being unwatched. Invisible. The Captain and Vice Admiral didn’t even notice that she refused to address them as “Sir”. She could slip out at any time and nobody would care, because their eyes would be on the chest of the 22-year-old blonde; Sayre didn’t even work for the attention everyone gave her.
Ahead, two braids and a blue shirt.
A flutter of hope rose from Sayre’s gut–
But when the hair entered shadow, it shone brown. The warm ambient candlelight had thrown off the hue. The woman turned and laughed at her companion. She was a decade younger than Rhoda, closer to Sayre’s age.
She squeezed the name tag in her hand, wrestling to untie the knot twisting inside her that had weaved together the threads of defection and merit.
No matter what she did, it would never be enough. Not for her father, not for the Federation. Running away would only prove them correct.
Destiny and fate had conspired against her before she was ever born.
She needed a drink.
Searching the ballroom proved much harder than the lobby.
Sayre sipped from a champagne flute, unable to see through the thickness of bodies crowding the cavernous space.
She could barely squeeze between the dozens of tables and hundreds of chairs, forced to turn sideways to slip through the countless strangers. Silently, she wondered what they all did to earn a spot on the attendance list.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Candlelight provided ambiance. Servers expertly threaded the tiny gaps in the human throng, carrying drinks and hors d'oeuvres.
Sayre drew another sip, lowering her glass just as someone bumped into her from behind.
Rhoda?
No, some random stranger who would have spilled her drink all over her uniform had the bump occurred a second sooner.
“Sorry,” he said to her torso.
Sayre spun away, trying to carve distance between her and the stranger. She thought to message Rhoda on her cell comms, but the terror of leaving a paper trail kept her hand from reaching into her pocket.
She stood five feet and five inches in flat shoes. Seeing over the heads and shoulders crowded around her proved to be impossible.
Instead, she listened. Maybe Rhoda would call for her, maybe she wouldn’t.
Sayre hoped she would.
She caught snippets of conversations as she drifted past:
“I have my manicure on Thursday, and my pedicure on Friday…”
“Yeah, he got shot down over Portannis. Poor bastard…”
“Did you hear that Thorpe is not seeking re-election? Whitlock is probably the best option, then…”
“Our asset on Ombra Prime is working out so far, but we’ve got to keep a close eye on her…”
The last voice – cutting in its unsentimentality – was unmistakable.
The broad shoulders dressed in Legionnaire black turned, and Sayre’s breath caught in a fright she could not suppress. She looked up at the tall figure with greyed-blond hair neatly combed, and a slant of a smile carved across his face.
“Admiral Blackmore,” Clayton Faraway said. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Sayre.”
Lysander Blackmore took Sayre’s hand and kissed the top of it. “My pleasure.”
He wore the same black uniform of the Legionnaire fleet as Clayton. His hair was dark as jet and slicked back, like a raptor swooping down on his prey.
Sayre gently pulled her hand away from his grip, feeling the cold wetness of his lips on her. She fought every urge to wipe it off then and there. But her father would disapprove.
Blackmore’s eyes shifted to Clayton. “What a wonderful young woman you have.”
Clayton, without warning, casually took the champagne flute from his daughter’s hand and set it on the table behind him, out of reach. “This is the man you should listen to, Sayre. One of the best Admirals the Federation has ever known.”
“Yes, sir,” she said firmly, speaking from her diaphragm – a reflex drilled into her long ago.
Clayton sipped his own drink, then said, “He might even be our next president.”
Blackmore grinned. “A little early for grand assumptions.” He looked down at Sayre. “But if I am half as talented as your father believes, then I stand a fighting chance.”
“You have my vote, sir,” Sayre said as honestly as possible.
Another Blackmore grin – a politician’s grin. “That’s great to hear. Your father raised you well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I hear you are serving on the Vindicator?”
Sayre swallowed down her rising fear.
“Answer him, Sayre,” Clayton said without kindness.
“Yes, sir,” she blurted out. “I had some time at the astrogator’s console. Near Thalassar, sir.”
Blackmore’s head bobbed in a slow nod. “Not an easy station. Your father was the master.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clayton remained visibly unaffected by the praise. “Maybe with enough time and practice, she might become good enough to sit there full-time.”
Sayre felt Blackmore’s saliva drying on her hand, tightening her skin. She wanted to crawl out of that room more than ever. But her father would disapprove.
“I’ll put in a good word with Captain Shipley,” Blackmore said to Clayton. “We’ll get her all the practice she needs.”
“That is very kind of you,” Clayton replied. “She needs all the time she can get.”
Sayre’s saving grace arrived not with Rhoda calling her name, but a photographer asking the admirals if they would like their photo taken for the Usona Times.
Before Sayre could step away, Clayton wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, preventing any thought of escape.
She put on her best fake smile and the flash popped half a dozen times.
The photographer asked Admiral Blackmore a few quick questions, and in the precious moment of deliverance, Sayre looked to her father and asked, “Sir, may I be excused.”
He responded with one nod upward, and Sayre retreated into the crowd with a decision dominating her every thought…
Find Rhoda, and leave.
_________________________
Carrying three glasses of beer, Rane smiled and nodded at cameras, dignitaries, and strangers alike as he weaved through the tightening crowd.
Finally, and without spilling a drop, he landed at the table assigned to the Dreadnaught bridge crew.
“Where’s Cade?” Rane asked, setting down the glasses.
Duncan took two for himself. “Hopefully getting himself a beer. That’ll teach him not to be late.”
Rane waited for some folks to pass before pulling out his chair and sitting. The look of disgust on his face must have been evident, because no one stopped to say hi.
So many people for such an empty occasion.
Why he even had to be there, for Scothern’s medal ceremony, was beyond him. The price of coming up with the Thalassar gambit, he supposed. Victory in the form of punishment.
Rane slouched down in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Ceremonies and galas and displays of extravagance never impressed him, no matter how many times the Security Council mandated his attendance.
Every time, they functioned only to delay his leave so he could be with Shay again.
Duncan gulped down a swig of amber beer. “That should be you getting promoted, Rane. Not that dumb bastard, Scrotum.”
“Eh.” Rane sipped his beer, savoring the flavor. Usona beer wasn’t his favorite. He preferred Erania’s more malt-forward style. But he would never turn down free beer.
“Eh what? Rane, you’re the one who came up with the plan. You did all the brain work, all the thinking. You made sure that idiot didn’t fuck it up. They’re giving him your medal, Rane!”
Rane shrugged. “Just more useless junk. Let him worry about it if it makes him feel special.”
Duncan exhaled his frustration through pursed lips. “Boy, you must be fun at parties. Oh, wait. This is a party.” He shook his friend by the shoulder. “Lighten the fuck up! Have a beer. Here, have Cade’s beer.”
Duncan slid the third beer toward Rane, but Rane ignored it. His mind resided elsewhere – on Shay, and on Liber.
Duncan pressed upright in his seat, straining to see through the crowded ballroom. “I think Scothern is over there somewhere…”
Rane sipped, set his beer aside, and leaned on the table. “Who cares about Scothern. What we have to focus on is Liber.”
“Who cares about Scothern?” Duncan turned in his seat toward the Vice Admiral. “I care, because he’s stealing your glory and taking your promotion. You want to let a fuckin’ fool like him reach full Admiral before you? And what about Liber?”
Rane waved off the comment about rank. “Three refineries were struck on Liber. They are totally obliterated.”
“Huh?”
“The PDR is hitting our quantum fusion core production facilities.”
An uncertain silence hung between the duo.
Duncan then shook his head and pulled away Rane’s beer. “You’re cut off, man.”
Cade arrived in that same moment, sitting down and sliding his beer toward himself.
“Here,” Duncan said as he gave Rane’s glass to Cade. “Have a beer.”
Cade, sitting with two beers, one barely touched, smiled with pleasant surprise. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“I’m telling you,” Rane continued. “Three refineries on Liber are gone. That means our reserves are going to take a hit for as long as it takes to rebuild. Do you have any idea how long it takes to build a refinery on Liber, of all places?”
Cade drank Rane’s beer. “What about Liber?” When he realized Rane was without a drink, he slid the full glass across the table to Rane.
“What corner of your ass are you pulling this from, Rane?” Duncan asked.
“Fucking Shay told me.”
The namedrop paused the conversation, and Duncan’s glass halfway to his mouth. All three present were well aware that information coming from Shay Ashley, one of the Federation’s most gifted codebreakers, could not be so easily discounted.
In the pause, Rane sipped from the full beer glass, holding his eyes on Duncan, then turning them to Cade.
“Shay told you what, exactly?” The question came from Cade.
Rane measured his reply carefully. “There is a distinct possibility that the PDR struck Liber.”
Duncan said what was on all three of their minds: “How?”
The trio exchanged glances, and Rane simply raised his eyebrows as a way of saying that he didn’t know.
And he despised not knowing.
All this glitz and glamor dwelling on what already happened when precious resources could be directed at what they needed to be doing if the Fed wanted to actually win the war.
Without these fancy asides and all the red tape and stifling bureaucracy, they would have won already. Rane would be relaxing in his mountain cabin with Shay and the family they wished to have, instead of wasting precious hours of his life watching praise heaped upon Roland Scothern.
Rane drank more. It was the only way of stomaching such pointless nonsense.
His thoughts turned again toward Shay – the center of his galaxy. No aspect of his life escaped her gravity. All the fighting, the strategizing, his desire to end the war…it was all for her.
Hearing about Liber changed something in him. He didn’t notice it at first, but the creeping dread soon became inescapable and everpresent. If the PDR could slip past Federation fleets and scanners and listening stations and defensive outposts, and reach as deep as Liber without detection…
The enemy had just flipped the board.
Shay had always been considered “safe” at the station on Etheris, in the Erania star zone. At least, as safe as one could be so close to the frontlines.
They had thought – Rane, his buddies, Shay – that Shennon Sutton would be safe, stationed way out near the Sarius star zone, but –
Rane downed a quick swig of beer. He didn’t want to think of death. Not while he was trapped in such a needless performance ritual with Shay half the galaxy away.
Ahead, he caught sight of someone he had been meaning to talk to – an Admiral in Legionnaire black.
The urge to do something in spite of his performative shackles propelled Rane to his feet. He downed his beer in one go and set the empty glass aside.
Duncan looked up to him. “Beer run?” He sucked the last of his glass dry.
“Nope,” Rane said, with his gaze held firmly on retired Legionnaire Fleet Admiral, Lysander Blackmore.
If anyone knew what was happening, it would be the man standing at the intersection of politics and war.
Rane patted Duncan on the shoulder and said: “Going on an information run.”
_________________________
Hollace felt iron falling onto her chest when she glimpsed the Progress Party candidate – and Martin's potential murderer – from across the ballroom floor.
“That’s her…”
Hollace hadn’t realized she spoke aloud, but the hundred other conversations co-mingling within the cavernous space drowned out her words so no one could hear her anyway.
Decked out in a shimmering blue gown, Altevis Senator Maren Whitlock tossed her head back in cackling laughter. Her interlocutor was someone Hollace had never seen before, but looked like old money.
“Terrence, you better be getting some photos of…”
She turned to look for the Times photographer but he was nowhere to be found. She scanned the groupings gathered between the enormous tables looking for a camera flash, but she found more than a dozen pops of light.
Just as she was thinking finding Terrence would be like finding a black betta in a dark ocean, her eyes landed on the meat and cheese table.
Instantly, her stomach grumbled.
The food was for everyone…right?
She didn’t know who to ask, so she quietly meandered over to the towering pile of delicious cheeses and meats and fruits, half of which she could hardly identify.
And from that vantage, she had a clearer line of sight to her personal target, Whitlock, and her professional target, Admiral Lysander Blackmore.
Several random strangers took their fill from the bounty piled before her, and departed, leaving her alone.
Carefully, Hollace set her tablet on the floor, leaning against one leg of the meat and cheese display, and picked up one of the little plates stacked neatly beside the table’s edge.
She picked up six pieces of cheese, a few crackers, and was plucking a grape from the vine before she realized there was serving tongs for each.
Thankfully, nobody was watching her.
Hollace wrapped the little cubes of cheese in the little slices of meat and shoveled them into her mouth, each bit as delectable as the last. She caught herself almost moaning at the flavor of one specific cheese, feta, or some other white variant with nuts on top, and wisely composed herself. But, unable to restrain her desire, housed a few more of the delicious white cheese cubes which she dubbed “Fet-stachio”.
She chomped down on crackers as she kept a close eye on Blackmore. The retired admiral was currently engaged in friendly-looking conversation with a man Hollace recognised as Edsel Orman, President of the UEF Central Bank.
Her gaze swam over to Whitlock, who was now looking rather interested in whatever a dark-haired woman in a golden gown was saying.
Is that…D’arcy Balfour?
Most likely. Of course the CEO of Horizon Dynamics, the top Federation arms supplier, would not be absent from an event such as that.
Hollace popped a grape in her mouth and chewed with vigor, her eyes locked on Whitlock. “That schmoozer…look at her schmooze.” She stuffed more cheese in her mouth, trying her best to appear as if she wasn't staring at Whitlock.
A question rolled over and over and over again in Hollace's mind – just how did Whitlock have Martin killed? She would never do it herself, she’d have her goon squad carry out the dirty work. The hoity-toity type never got blood directly on their perfectly manicured hands.
Certainly the same would be true for D’arcy Balfour, a war profiteer. She’d never fire a beam cannon or pulsar torpedo from a Wraith Reiter..
Would she?
Hollace reached for a grape but her plate was empty. No more grapes. No more cheese. No more meat. Only crumbs.
She spun to load up on more, but her hand never made it to the food.
Instead, it collided with the freshly-loaded plate of a grey-suited man in his 40s, sending a heaping load of cheddar and ham and whatever those delicious red things were straight to the floor.
Hollace tracked the calamity of tumbling food as it bounced off the plush carpet, and with a terrifying gulp, looked up to the man whom she had just collided into, hoping it wasn’t anyone important…
She found the grinning smile of Jarvis Carmichael, majority owner of the Usona Times, looking down on her.
Every other sound in the room instantly shut off as Hollace stammered through her best attempt at an apology: “Oh no, shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh boy…wow! I am SO sorry...”
Jarvis simply laughed as Hollace crouched down and started picking up cubes of cheese and collecting them in the palm of her hand.
“It’s fine,” Jarvis said in a disarmingly friendly tone. “Let it go.”
Hollace rose to stand, still cradling a small reclamation of fallen cheese in one hand. She noticed his eyes lowering to her badge, the one that identified her as an employee of the press outlet his family had owned for over 200 years.
He looked her in the eye and smiled again. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
He extended a hand.
Awkwardly, Hollace transferred the pile of floor cheese to her other hand so she could shake.
“Hollace,” she said as a strand of hair fell into her eyes. “Kirby.”
“And what do you do, Hollace Kirby?”
“I do, um, politics.” She hoped her forced smile did not look as horrific as it felt.
Moreso, she wished he would leave her alone so she could shrivel in the corner and never see the light of day again.
Mustering as much courage as she could dig up, Hollace brushed her hair back with her free hand and added, “I’m, uh, covering the Blackmore campaign.” Acting nonchalant with a handful of cheese came as difficult as she expected.
“I look forward to reading your work,” Jarvis said as he reached for a fresh plate.
“Oh no, please, let me…” It was all she could think to say.
Carefully, Hollace set the handful of cheese on the corner of the table, dusted her hands, and then lifted the tongs to serve the man who essentially owned her.
“These ones are my favorite,” she said as she set a few Fet-stachios on the clean plate he held in his hands.
When she turned to Jarvis, she saw his grin had deepened to near laughter, and then she had no idea if she should abandon the effort or continue.
“It’s okay, really.” Gently, he took the tongs from her hand and began placing meat and crackers on the plate himself. “There is no shortage of food, so we can afford a little waste.”
He glanced at her once more, smiled and said: “I’ll watch for your Blackmore coverage, Hollace Kirby.” Then, with a finger-point and a cocking thumb, he walked away.
Once the Times owner was out of sight, Hollace let out a deep, deflating exhale. “Oh my god…shit! Fuck! What the fuck?! Oh my fucking…no. No no no NO! Oh no…”
She was sure she’d have to start submitting applications for new employment in the morning.
Glancing around, mouth agape, Hollace – blessedly – saw that no one was staring.
A weight lifted from her chest and she could not stop herself from laughing.
Her very next thought was that of Martin’s reaction had he been witness to this new level of embarrassment – doubled over, practically on his knees, laughing so hard that he was silent and red-faced, desperate for breath. When she’d come into the office the next morning, there would have been little cubes of cheese on the floor all around her desk.
Her laughter faded into a smile as the rush of reality returned – endless overlapping chatter, glasses clinking, servers passing through, soft music playing behind it all.
No one was laughing at her.
She found Whitlock in the crowd, standing in the same spot, this time cackling with a woman unknown to Hollace.
And then Blackmore, grinning with the Director of Galactic Defense and Intelligence, Orson Ingram.
Hollace spun at the sound of tongs lifted. For one heartbeat, she had convinced herself that Martin was there, helping himself to some food. He had arrived to help guide her through the belly of that horrible beast dressed in its finest suits and gowns.
It was only Terrence.
“They always have a good spread for these big events,” he said conversationally.
“Is the Inquirer here?” Hollace asked.
“Of course. Everyone is.”
“Are they hiring?”
Terrence gave her a look of confusion. “What?”
Hollace pointed to the cubes spilled from Jarvis’s plate, collected in a little pile on the edge of the table. “Don’t eat that, it’s floor cheese.”
“I got the shots you wanted,” Terrence said between mouthfuls of sliced turkey. “Whitlock and Balfour, Whitlock and Orman, Whitlock and Hammersley…”
Hollace held her gaze on her personal target, the Senator from Altevis. “Who’s she with now?”
Terrence pointed at the conversation with a cracker. “That’s the wife of Jarvis Carmichael. I think her name is…Charlette Triffon? Something like that.” He chewed the cracker. “She’s from Mennarone.”
“Old money,” Hollace said absently.
Her cell comms buzzed in her pocket. She retrieved it without taking her eyes off of Whitlock.
When she finally lowered her eyes to read the message from an unknown sender, the world shut out again in the space of a single breath.
The message read:
Hollace, I need your help. It’s about Martin.
_________________________
Cade Gables did not dwell on the news of Liber half as much as his thoughts circled Ombra Prime.
If Rane’s plan worked, and the Fed could occupy the distant desert world, then Cade’s retirement plans came one step further to bearing the fruits of labor.
That fruit being grapes.
Of course, he would prefer to have a vineyard on his homeworld of Ecothra. The ecosystem of Ombra Prime was unwelcoming to the cultivation of grapes, but not impossible. He could make it happen, if he had to. If she wouldn’t leave.
Maybe he could convince her to come with him to Ecothra.
He laughed to himself for only a moment. Two years had elapsed since they last spoke through subspace comms, three since he’d seen her in person.
No matter how dimly her light flickered, it never went out in Cade’s heart. No matter how much it burned him, and how much he burned her, he couldn’t say goodbye any easier than he could commit to staying.
He checked his cell comms. No new messages.
Maybe it was finally time to let go. Let the wick burn out, let the smoke rise and dissipate, and move onto a new path in the dark.
Maybe.
Duncan returned to the table with three fresh beers. “I think Rane’s got it right. This shit’s boring.”
Cade, nudged out of his reverie by Duncan’s arrival, raised a glass and toasted. “How’s the wine selection up there?”
Duncan swallowed and smacked his lips. “You and your fuckin’ wine...You’re a warship XO. You’re supposed to drink beer.”
Duncan suddenly set his glass down and leaned closer to Cade.
“Wait a second,” he said in a tone of recognition. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re using it to pick up chicks. Chicks love wine. It’s brilliant!”
Duncan sat back, pleased with his own (incorrect) deduction. He tapped his head and pointed at Cade knowingly.
Cade just smiled and let him have this pretend victory. He sipped his beer, wondering how he could ever explain his longstanding infatuation with a “chick” that loved whisky.
“How about that one?” Duncan said, pointing to a brunette in a green shirt and blue slacks, staring at her cell comms near the meat and cheese table.
Strictly out of curiosity, Cade turned to glimpse the young woman, then looked back to Cade. “I may be swearing off brunettes for a while.”
“Hair slicked back like that, stud earrings,” Duncan observed. “I bet she’s into some kinky shit.”
“Why don’t you go say hi?”
“Not my type,” Duncan said. “But her!”
Cade turned again to see a young blonde in a military uniform hurry by.
“She is definitely my type,” Duncan said as he watched her hurry through the crowd.
Cade caught himself almost laughing. He leaned closer to his Captain. “That’s Admiral Faraway’s daughter.”
Duncan gaped at Cade, then snapped his attention back to the young blonde. “That stuffy old bastard made that?!” He exhaled in awe. “What do we have to do to get her on our ship? The old Dreadnaught could use a pretty face on the bridge. No offense, Cade. You’re cute, but you’re no…what’s her name?”
“Faraway.” Cade shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“Welp,” Duncan said, then chugged the rest of his drink. “I guess I’ll go find out.”
Cade snickered to himself. “You go do that. And when she shuts you down, check out the wine list before you come back.”
Duncan stood, and leaned close to Cade. “I’m not doing it just for her. You said it yourself – she’s the daughter of the Admiral. Director of Strategic Security or whatever the fuck. We get close enough to her, then we can put in a good word with the old man for you and Rane and the crew. Get us a better assignment than babysitting dickheads like Scothern.”
Cade, impressed at the forethinking, was hung up only on the probability. “You do that, I'll buy your beers for a month.”
“Deal.”
Duncan held out his fist and Cade bumped it.
Cade’s Captain departed, likely not for long. A gorgeous young woman like that, especially one of such a high-level military pedigree, would eat him alive and spit him right back out.
Sitting alone once again, if only briefly, Cade had a sudden hunger for grapes.
When he turned back to the meat and cheese (and grapes) table, the brunette was gone, and a hint of disappointment smoldered inside him.
Maybe all paths really did send him back to that dimly flickering light in the surrounding darkness.
Just maybe.
_________________________
Ducked around a corner, Hollace stared at the display of her cell comms in secret, reading and re-reading the message.
Hollace, I need your help. It’s about Martin.
She only lifted her eyes to scope out Maren Whitlock, to see if that walking portrait of corruption reacted to the message’s delivery. She could barely see through the crowd, but that wicked woman was there and Hollace’s aim locked onto her.
Was it from someone who knows her?
Was it from someone in the room?
Hollace shut off the display and stuffed the cell comms in her pocket, her heartbeat feeling like she was being kicked in the chest repeatedly from the inside.
She ran a hand over her head to smooth back her hair; the perspiration on her brow helped keep it there. Her eyes darted from one attendee to another, from cocktail dress to military uniform to $19,000 suit.
No one reacted. No one approached.
She could disappear right then, and no one would notice.
A shiver rippled up her spine and Hollace threw herself back into the crowd’s view, lingering once more near the table of cheese and meat. She put both hands in her pockets – one rubbing her fingertips against the smooth sea glass, the other holding her cell comms, wanting desperately to read the message once more.
Hollace gave in and pulled the cell comms from her pocket to read the strange text once more.
Hollace, I need your help. It’s about Martin.
“Fuck me,” she said with a huge exhale.
Who knows about Martin? And how? And why me?
Tempting fate, she tapped a quick reply, just a single word:
What?
And after a moment’s hesitation, hit send.
Her cell comms were back in her pocket in a microsecond. She knew she couldn’t focus on her job without learning what the hell was going on, why she was being contacted, and by whom.
Worst case scenario, she could just play stupid and insists she has no idea what the random messenger was on about.
Best case scenario…
A flush ran through Hollace’s face and she suddenly felt hungry. To distract herself, she did the last thing she wanted to do in that moment and took her eyes off of Maren Whitlock to go find Lysander Blackmore.
_________________________
Sayre found Rhoda right as the stage was being set for Vice Admiral Roland Scothern to speak.
The short redhead was on her way out of the ballroom but was stopped in an instant as Sayre’s hand clamped around her arm.
“Rhoda…” Sayre couldn’t think of what to say exactly, and refused to say the truth out loud. The only thing that came to her mind was, “You told me to ask you again if we made it out of Thalassar alive.”
Rhoda stared up at her and said nothing.
With a dry mouth and a sandpaper swallow, Sayre said, quietly, “I’m asking.”
“You sure?” Rhoda said.
It was hard for Sayre to say yes, and not only because others might hear.
She’d spent her entire life being told by her father that quitting is for weak losers, that she had to toughen up and keep pushing forward, no matter what.
But she was never told what to do when she came to the end of the road, when there was no more ground to cover. The only place left to go was off the path and into the unknown.
That wasn’t giving up…right?
Sayre steadied her nerves with a calming breath and said, “I’m here and I’m asking.”
“The spaceport down the block,” Rhoda said in a hushed tone. “Where our shuttle came in. There’s another shuttle inbound. It’ll be docking in 40 minutes.”
Sayre checked her cell comms for the time. As she slipped it back into her pocket, her eyes watched for anyone who might be listening.
“You’ll want to be on it,” Rhoda continued. “It will remain at the port for ten minutes and then it leaves. It doesn’t stay.”
“Where’s it going?”
“It leaves.” That was all Rhoda said to answer the question.
Sayre turned her pale blue eyes back to those around her, and spoke to Rhoda, saying, “It’s that easy?”
“Is staying that easy?” Their eyes met again. “Leave here alone. Don’t follow me out. Don’t let anyone follow you out. This gets fucked up, there won’t be another shot.”
“Okay.”
Rhoda turned to walk away, her gaze still on Sayre. “See you soon.”
Sayre swallowed again and nodded, saying nothing as her ticket to the unknown vanished into the crowd.
The question tumbled around in her mind, refusing to settle – was it so easy to stay?
Staying meant familiarity, for better and for worse. Leaving meant anything at all could happen. She could end up on some distant PDR world and get tossed into a labor camp. Or the shuttle could be stopped and she’d be caught, and shipped off to Liber to mine quantum fusion cores for the next thirty years.
Was staying on the Vindicator easier? Sayre’s answer frightened her.
She recalled her father’s words about fear – only cowards are afraid, and he didn’t raise a coward.
But he did. Judging by how terrified Sayre felt in that moment, how her hands couldn’t stop trembling, how she felt like throwing up and couldn’t make a clear decision – Clayton Faraway raised a coward.
Before she could do anything else, Sayre needed a drink. She couldn’t think until her mind was shifted into a lower gear, given time to catch up and decompress.
She turned toward the bar and found a Captain from another Wraith Reiter standing beside her, blond goatee with a shaven head.
“Hey, want a –”
“No.”
Sayre brushed right by him, leaving him standing there muttering a resigned “Alright then.”
_________________________
“I’ll tell you what I know.” The name on the comms officer’s badge was KRISTOF RICHARDS BALLARD, from the Wraith Reiter Colossus.
Rane started walking in easygoing steps, a slow, conversational pace – the idea was that whomever might be listening would only catch glimpses of their chat as they passed.
Ballard kept pace beside Rane, seeking only loud enough for Rane to hear. “Your intel is correct, there was an attack on Liber. The Cimaria was nearly destroyed, but it got away. They were rerouted to Polsarion. I didn’t know why at first, but my cousin is stationed there and he said they had to close a whole wing of the medical center to take them in.”
Rane sipped his beer silently, wheels turning in his head.
Shay was right. Of course she was – it’s Shay.
Ballard hesitated before continuing. “You said you’d put in a good word with the admiralty, right?”
Rane nodded but still said nothing.
“Because if this gets out, I could be –”
“Don’t worry.” Rane stopped walking, and turned to Ballard. “I’ll make something up. I don’t want this getting out, either.”
Ballard chanced a glance to his left and then his right, then looked Rane in the eyes. “I’m thinking this is being downplayed until the Thalassar situation is resolved.”
Sipping his beer again, Rane smiled inside. Good thinking.
“That’s all I know,” Ballard concluded.
Drawing a deep breath and slowly exhaling, Rane put his free hand on Ballard’s shoulder. “Thank you. I mean it.” And then, before he forgot, said, “Who’s your fleet admiral? Ducane?”
“Glass.”
Rane almost swore out loud. Rane had never met Lucien Glass in person, but knew of his reputation for being a borderline sadist. It was no wonder why this junior officer had little problem divulging classified intel.
“I’ll do what I can,” Rane said.
“Any other ship is fine. Hell, I don’t even want the promotion. I –”
“I’ll do what I can,” Rane said again, giving Ballard’s shoulder a squeeze before turning away.
As he wandered through the crowd, Rane’s mind immediately began cataloging the information alongside what Shay’s encrypted message had revealed – Liber struck, confirmed by both sources. One Wraith Reiter critically hit. Silence from the Security Council and the press alike.
Whatever happened, it was bad. That’s all Rane knew with certainty.
What kind of security breach could possibly allow a Starlancer to slip all the way through a Corridor undetected?
Had that been the case, the Security Council would have cancelled the gala to address the error.
But yet…here they were.
That frightened Rane more than anything. His throat became dry. He needed another drink. Several more drinks.
A problem that could be solved would be solved. But a problem the SecCon had no solution for…
Rane took his cell comms from his pocket, hoping against reason to find a message from Shay. But she was half the galaxy away. He’d have to wait until he was back on board the Dreadnaught to hear from her again.
Setting his empty beer on the bar, he muttered a quiet “Fuck.”
He wondered how much shit he’d get into for disappearing back to the Wraith Reiter. It would probably be worth it, to know Shay was okay. She was strong, she could handle herself – under normal circumstances.
The Liber attack had been the most abnormal circumstance Rane could remember.
He downed a huge portion of his fresh beer in one gulp, pissed at himself for not knowing what was going on as much as he was at the PDR for doing it.
The next thought that came to his mind – he needed a plan.
With another swig, he set his mind to the task.
A PDR Starlancer deep in Fed territory most likely meant there was a collaborator at some point high enough in security to make it possible.
Maybe that was why SecCon was keeping it quiet – so the PDR informant wouldn’t know the Fed was onto them.
Rane sipped his beer. A satisfying taste.
They would have had to use the Boreal Corridor since the Thalassar gambit was happening in the Austral Corridor, as well as to minimize being spotted by Ombra Prime detection. A Fed collaborator with the PDR might not have enough intel on Ombran security. It has to be the Boreal Corridor. Another piece fell into place.
This was good. Scothern’s 11th fleet approaching Ombra space practically guaranteed no PDR infiltration through that region, which took a heavy weight off of Rane’s chest.
Shay, stationed on Etheris in the Erania star zone close to Ombra Prime, would be – at least hypothetically – safe.
Rane breathed a sigh of relief and finished his beer. He motioned for a fresh pint from the bartender.
Just as his next draught arrived, so too did soon-to-be Admiral Roland Scothern.
“Mister Dryden!” Scothern made no effort to dampen his booming voice while addressing the Vice Admiral by his honorific instead of his rank.
As he approached, Rane was mid-sip of his beer, and Scothern’s meaty palm slapped Rane on the shoulder, spilling some of the drink onto his uniform jacket.
Rane, choking down the ale, dried the spill on his clothes with his free hand. “Thanks.”
“It’ll wash out, Dryden.”
“Unlike the stain of losing Thalassar.” Rane sipped again, his eyes peering over the rim of his glass.
Scothern guffawed. “Exposing weakness in the PDR’s defenses is hardly a reason to frown, Dryden. One day, you might learn the meaning of the term ‘strategic retreat’.
It took a concentrated effort for Rane not to laugh in Scothern’s face. If only the arrogant narcissist knew he was praising Rane’s own plan, to Rane’s own face.
“Well,” Rane said, “I guess that’s why you’re getting the promotion. Congratulations, Admiral.”
Rane raised his glass to toast, but since Scothern held none, Rane simply drank. The cool beer helped wash down the sour taste of his plan being twisted by the Security Council to promote such a pompous fool.
Scothern patted Rane hard on the shoulder a second time, but Rane was ready for it, and held his glass steady.
“Keep a close eye on me, Dryden. You can learn a thing or two about how to succeed.”
“I have no doubt,” Rane said. “I’ve already learned that you don’t have to accompany your fleet en route to Ombra Prime. You can just let them proceed into potentially hostile territory all on their own.”
Scothern smirked – the jab obvious enough that even he understood the meaning. “I have faith in my fleet, Mister Dryden. In you, not so much.”
“With your guidance, Admiral, the feeling is mutual.”
Scothern’s expression halted in a moment of silence – this jab, not so obvious to him.
Rane seized the opportunity to raise his glass once more and then depart into the crowd.
As he pressed through, Scothern slipped from his thoughts entirely as his mind centered on how to deal with a possible spy working within Federation space. The Security Council would be his best avenue for approaching a delicate topic that required the highest levels of clearance. Once he had a starting point to work from, he could bring the information to Shay.
A black uniform appeared ahead of Rane – Legionnaire black.
As he drew closer, Rane saw the person he was looking for – Admiral Clayton Faraway – engaged in conversation with another clad in Legionnaire black – Admiral Lysander Blackmore.
Blackmore noticed Rane first and greeted him with a smile. “Vice Admiral Dryden, I had been meaning to find you.”
The comment made Rane metaphorically stop in his tracks, at the same time he literally stopped in his tracks. “Really?”
“The Thalassar gambit is the greatest piece of military strategy I have seen in quite some time,” Blackmore said. “I have to personally congratulate the brain behind the operation.”
Blackmore held out his hand, and Rane shook it. “Thank you, Admiral.”
Blackmore’s reputation for military tactics and strategy was renowned throughout the Federation. Rane had never met the man before, but he had read so much about Blackmore than he felt as though he did.
“Once the 11th fleet is in position, we may as well declare victory,” Clayton said, chiming in.
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Blackmore said. “There is still a lot of fighting to do.”
“The Ombrans are great fighters,” Clayton added. “They will serve us well.”
Rane set his beer, unfinished, on the tray of a passing server. “I have to admit, I share Admiral Faraway’s confidence. My greater concern is not in the Austral Corridor, but in the Boreal.”
The two retired Legionnaire Fleet Admirals exchanged a wordless glance, and then turned in silence to Rane, who took it to mean he either knew too much, or that he was insane.
“What about the Boreal Corridor?” Clayton asked, each word measured and unthreatening.
How to broach the subject without implicating Shay?
“I was just talking with Admiral Scothern,” Rane said carefully. “He mentioned something about an attack on Liber…?”
Clayton turned hard eyes to Blackmore, but the Traditionalist Party candidate only grinned at Rane.
“Word travels fast these days,” Blackmore said.
“One drop of blood in the water is enough to attract the sharks,” Clayton added, and his expression, in an almost magical instant, softened into a nonchalant smile of his own. “Don’t worry yourself over the Boreal Corridor, Rane. It’s nothing.”
“Even so,” Rane said, “I may have some ideas on how to strengthen our position near Liber, now that we have Ombra Prime shored up.” His gaze drifted between the two elder Admirals, searching for some way of involving himself in affairs that were not meant for him.
Blackmore flashed one of those politician’s smiles and draped an arm around Rane’s shoulders. “If the brain that hatched the Thalassar gambit has other ideas, I am more than willing to hear them. Excuse us, Clayton.”
Admiral Faraway bowed out of the conversation as Blackmore led Rane through the crowd.
Rane had few concrete ideas on how to protect Liber, but that didn’t matter. He could make something up. All he needed in that moment was to get in the good graces of someone who could put him on the right path, and the potential future President of the United Empyreal Federation had, to Rane’s greatest delight, volunteered his services.
_________________________
The fine mist that hung in the cool dusk air had turned to a light drizzle once Sayre was in the taxi.
She told the driver where to go, and then she was on her way to the spaceport. To a new life…somewhere. PDR? Ombra Prime? Some backwater Fed world that people like her father stopped caring about decades ago?
Sayre squirmed in the back seat, watching the rain patter against the window. Simultaneously, she felt like vomiting, and felt like she already had. A sickening feeling consumed her, inside and out.
Leaving like a thief in the night felt wrong. Wronger than being neglected on the Vindicator’s bridge. At least there, she was where she wanted to be, doing what she wanted to do.
How was running away a solution?
Her father’s words resounded in her skull – only losers quit.
She wanted to cry, but only babies cried.
She didn’t try to stop the tears from welling over her eyelids and rolling over her cheeks. She might as well cry like a baby, because she was already a quitter. A coward. A loser. She was weak, not cut out for her dreams. One day, a woman would become the first officer in the United Empyreal Federation, and Sayre would see her only as a reminder that Clayton Faraway was right.
Why did he always have to be right?
Sayre had no answer to her own question. Maybe that was just the way things were in the Fed, and Rhoda was right for getting out. Power was for men like him, like Shipley and Scothern and Blackmore and President Thorpe. Women like her were just the help. Maybe a woman, like Maren Whitlock, would never become president – men like her father would never surrender power voluntarily.
Bullshit.
It was the only word that described Sayre’s feeling about the whole thing. Just pure bullshit. Just because that was the way things were didn’t mean that was the way they had to remain.
Sayre knew that as well as anyone. Her father had drilled into her from as far back as she could remember that nothing in life was given for free. You had to work for it and earn it. Then it would be yours, if you put in enough work.
The work it would take to become the first female officer in the Fed would be difficult. It would take more work than anyone had ever put in, a fact for which Sayre held no illusions. If someone worked hard enough already, they would have been promoted.
Right?
Before she could ponder a sincere answer, the taxi rocked to a stop.
Sayre drew her attention to the sprawling spaceport before her – a dozen or more landing pads for shuttles arrayed in a line along the harbor. Red and blue landing lights blinked calmly in the hurrying rainfall.
Only two shuttles were docked at that moment. One of them would be delivering defectors to sanctuary. She wondered if shuttle traffic had been minimized due to the gala down the block, for safety reasons.
“You getting out or what?” The voice came from the driver.
Sayre didn’t move. She stared ahead at the two shuttles, heart thundering in quick beats.
In the blur of rain and nightfall, Sayre could only see her father looking back, his grin sour but firm. It was the look of a man whose convictions he’d been holding for 22 years had been confirmed in front of the world.
She put her trembling fingers on the door handle.
It would be the last image she would remember after running away, haunting her every day thereafter. He would look at the photo taken of her at the gala, the two of them with Admiral Blackmore. And everyone would point at the terrified little girl in the center and say, that’s right, she wasn’t good enough. Clayton Faraway was right about her all along, from before the moment she was even born. No matter how much she studied and trained, all she ever did was fuck up once she was on the bridge, in the moment when it counted.
“No…fuck that.”
Sayre folded her hands between her knees, staring down at them quietly.
There was some part of her father that she knew would want her to leave. He wanted to be proven right. Defecting would not hurt him in the slightest. She hadn’t seen that before, not until she was in the moment of choice. But now she couldn’t unsee it.
“This is where you told me.” The driver’s tone did not mask his impatience. “What are we doing? You in or out?”
Sayre swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat, riding bile all the way down. She wiped her tears away and looked to the driver.
“Take me back.”
The driver muttered something Sayre couldn’t hear, and then turned the taxi around. Sayre fought as hard as she could to not look back.
Before they were out of the spaceport, Sayre turned around in her seat for one final glance at the two shuttles.
_________________________
When she looked at her cell comms again, Hollace’s heart nearly stopped.
The mystery person had replied.
Hollace scurried away from the crowd, into a corner of the enormous ballroom where no one could accidentally (or intentionally) catch sight of what she was about to read:
I know who killed Martin. Meet at Highway 71, Exit 3, in 20 minutes.
She stared at the first five words for so long, she almost forgot about the rest. The meeting place was a fifteen minute drive without traffic, so she would have to leave soon.
But how did they know? Were they investigating Whitlock, too? Who would do that?
Ten-million questions piled up in Hollace’s thoughts, but she couldn’t pick out a single one to focus on. They all demanded equal attention.
She glanced up and shoved her cell comms in her pocket when she noticed someone walking up to her.
It was only Terrence.
Before he could get a word out, Hollace asked, “Is there anything else I need to be here for? Or can I split?”
Terrence stopped in front of her wearing a look of dismay. “No, you can’t leave yet. You’re going to miss the most important part of the night…”
“Oh shit…what did I forget now?” The ceremony was already over. What else was there?
Terrence’s expression morphed instantly into an excited smile. “Dinner!”
Hollace said nothing as she gaped at him, wondering if he was joking or sincere.
“The food at these big events is always incredible,” he said. “It’s the best part, for sure. You’ll love it.”
“Oh…” At the mere mention of food, Hollace found herself desiring more than just meat and cheese. “I mean…is there anything besides that?”
“Nope,” he said. “Just free food, all you can eat. Open bar, too. Every time the big owners show up, they don’t –”
“I have to go,” she interjected. “I’m sorry, I have an important…thing.”
Terrence studied her with skepticism. “It’s not like you to turn down free food and drink.”
“I know,” she said, scrambling to come up with an excuse. “I have an obligation tonight, I forgot all about it. It’s like…” She couldn’t say a family event because most of her family was gone and what little remained was scattered on the other side of the planet. “You know…”
By the look on his face, Terrence did not know.
“I just have to go,” she said. “A friend is counting on me.”
“It’s nothing to be worried about, is it?”
“No, I just…I have to be a friend to someone. I promised I would.”
“Alright,” Terrence said, seeming to understand. “I’ll be here a while if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug, made awkward with her tablet in hand. She started to hurry out of the room, saying, “I’ll message when I’m home!”
Terrence simply waved goodbye.
In full retreat mode now, Hollace picked up her pace as she approached the lobby, tucking the tablet under one arm while fishing for her cell comms in her pocket.
When she pulled out the cell comms to review the meeting location, the purple sea glass came with it, falling to the floor as she strode away.
_________________________
“Fuck, where is it?! Shit!”
The husky feminine voice echoed in the lobby, with a rural accent shared by no one else at the gala. In fact, Cade could not remember ever hearing someone from the outback at that kind of event before.
Curious to know what a real person was doing there, Cade followed the sound of anxious profanity into the lobby. There, he found a young brunette in a buttoned-up green blouse and blue slacks frantically scouring the patterned carpet for something lost.
He hesitated for a moment upon realization that this was the same young woman standing near the hors d'oeuvres table earlier in the evening.
This young woman, on the verge of tears, looked ready to break down into sobs at any moment.
Carefully, Cade approached.
He stopped when his shoe landed on something hard.
Lifting his foot to inspect what he had trod upon, he found nothing but a small purple gem or stone of some sort. He bent over to retrieve it, feeling its smooth surface.
The woman did not even notice he had entered the room, much less that he was holding what was perhaps the item she was so distraught over losing.
Cade approached the young woman.
_________________________
He held the sea glass in his outstretched palm.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
She didn’t even see his face at first, she simply reached for the precious treasure when offered back to her.
His hand was deceptively soft and warm, and when Hollace dried her eyes, she saw standing before her a tall and handsome man with curly black hair and a blue officer’s uniform.
She lowered her gaze to the sea glass, making sure that was what she was holding. She could tell simply by the feel of the rounded edges, but her brain and her heart required further verification.
That was it. Blessedly, she had found it.
Or, rather, he had found it.
“Thank you,” she said, rising to her feet. It was the first and only time she had not known the whereabouts of her father’s token since he first gave it to her seventeen years prior.
She must have looked like a mess, but the officer didn’t seem to mind as he asked, “What is it?” with curiosity.
Hollace, swallowing, at a loss for words – because who even was this guy? – responded, “It’s just…a…piece of glass…that – that – that...I like.”
The officer smiled at her, kindly. “I’m glad that you found it.”
“Thank you,” she said again, ready to launch into a stammered goodbye –
“Would you like to get a drink?” he asked.
“I – huh?”
Friendly amusement spread across the nice officer’s features. “If you’re not busy.”
Hollace felt as though her head was in the clouds – and nearly forgot that she couldn’t waste any more time.
“I, uh…I have to go.”
The officer nodded a resigned nod. “Maybe another time.”
Hollace returned the gesture with a frantic series of quick nods, and then ran for the door – nearly falling through it as a young woman in a similar blue uniform opened it from the outside.
“Excuse me,” the other said as the two women passed each other.
When she emerged from the Convention Center, Hollace sprinted straight for the garage where she had parked her X1 Viperride a few hours earlier.
_________________________
Cade watched the flustered young reporter beeline out of the lobby at the same time as a fair-haired girl entered wearing a blue military uniform.
He recognized the new arrival as Admiral Faraway’s daughter. As she drew closer, he could see that she, too, was upset – but doing a fine job of keeping it from being too noticeable. It was in the way she walked with agitated purpose, head down, the styled waves of her hair falling, the silence of her breath.
And she likewise paid him no attention, walking straight past him, back into the ballroom from whatever task necessitated she step away momentarily.
Within moments, Cade was left standing in the lobby, alone.
_________________________
Sayre made sure to dry her eyes before returning to the ballroom.
She could not return to her table or sneak over to the bar for another drink without passing the table where her father sat, so she chose not to make the effort of trying to slip by. He would know.
As if on cue, her father waved for her to come to the table. She obeyed the command, knowing she could not refuse – especially in such a public setting.
Sayre pulled out a seat and sat on its edge, hands held between her knees.
“I’d like you all to meet my daughter, Sayre.”
Sayre looked at each of the others at the table as her father introduced them to her – D’arcy Balfour from Horizon Dynamics; West Hammersley, Admiral of the Federation Armada –
But her thoughts drifted to someone who wasn’t sitting at the table:
The Progress Party candidate looking to unseat Halden Thorpe as Federation President in the upcoming election – Maren Whitlock.
Sayre smiled and nodded along at each name she wasn’t paying attention to. Years and years of practice made it second nature. None of these people she would ever see again. It was simply her father parading her around to bigwigs to feel important.
What was important to Sayre was not who was giving how much money to whom, but what could possibly increase her odds of succeeding in her goal of becoming the first female officer in the United Empyreal Federation.
If it was going to happen, it seemed most likely under the first female President.
There was a first time for everything. And if the Federation was potentially going to see its first female head of state, Sayre did not want to miss her best shot at becoming an officer. Maybe then her father would look at her differently. Maybe then he would see her value, see that she was capable. That she never gave up.
Or maybe it would just piss him off. Either way, it would be worth it.
Or maybe it would just piss him off. Either way, it would be worth it.
“Sssayre!”
Her stomach lurched when she heard the slurred speech of her Captain, Mase Shipley, approaching from the direction of the bar.
“I was looking all over for you,” he said as he approached with a fresh beer in hand.
She could smell the booze on his breath from five feet away, but he came even closer so he could rest his sweaty hand on her shoulder.
“Mind if I steal my astrogator apprentice away for a while?” he asked the retired Admiral.
“Not at all.” Clayton then spoke to Sayre: “You should go sit with your Captain, Sayre. You still have a lot to learn.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, rising to her feet without even thinking about it.
Years and years of automatic obedience had her moving without questioning – just the way her father had instructed her. When a superior officer gives you a command, you follow it to the best of your ability.
And indeed, it was a command, regardless of it being phrased as a suggestion.
As Sayre followed the drunken Shipley to a nearby table, she spied for Maren Whitlock – finding her across the ballroom, laughing it up with some well-dressed strangers, champagne flute in hand.
Shipley fumbled at pulling a chair out for Sayre, but rebounded and accomplished the feat on his second effort. “Here, sit. Sit right next to me.”
Sayre sat on the edge of the seat, hands folded between her knees.
“You’re smart, Sayre,” Shipley said as he put his arm around the back of her chair. “You’ll be on the bridge in no time.”
He leaned closer, his beer breath stinking in Sayre’s nostrils.
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. And her only thought was that she might have just made the biggest mistake of her life.
_________________________
It was the fanciest urinal Duncan Burne had ever pissed into.
The entire bathroom had that sort of overwhelmingly tacky design that screamed it was not meant for warship Captains. The white marble and gold accent design seemed tailor made for the Board of Directors at Ternion and Wellspring and Horizon Dynamics who couldn’t bear pissing in a regular toilet like some scum off the streets.
Duncan laughed to himself. Maybe Rane was right, his contempt for pageantry fully justified. Or maybe it was the beer getting to him. He then laughed at how quickly Faraway’s daughter shot him down – far quicker than he’d expected. She must have had plenty of practice.
Finished, Duncan washed his hands, wondering if he wanted another free beer. Hard to turn down when the cost was nothing but a slightly worse memory the next morning.
He held his hands under the dryer when the door opened and the man who walked in triggered his memory in a way that no amount of beer could make him forget.
The man who had entered stopped short as he saw who stood before him.
Pulling his hands away from the dryer, Duncan let the room fall silent before saying, “You’re here?”
“Got a gig on Whitlock’s campaign.” The man with slightly long blond hair wore a sharp blue and black suit. His name was Lennox Terrell. “We fly out to Altevis the day after tomorrow for–”
Duncan closed the gap between them and stopped the sentence by pressing his lips to Lennox’s.
They held one another for the briefest second, then separated. Being caught in the act would be far worse than a court-martial.
Duncan’s eyes shifted to the door to make sure no one else was entering, and then fell back on Lennox. “What are you doing after this bullshit?”
Lennox smiled a half-smile. “You?”
_________________________
Heavy rain spilled from an ashen sky.
Hollace pulled her X1 Viperride under a highway overpass, the lights of Usona City blurring in the distance. Choosing to park there was partly to save herself from the downpour as much as it was to keep out of sight. A motorbike waiting out the storm was not an uncommon occurrence.
She kept the sleek white helmet on her head to protect her identity. She didn’t know if that was essential or not, but it felt like it was. The fewer people who knew where she was and what she was doing, the better.
Or was it?
Would at least someone, just one person, knowing where she was going help in the event that this mystery contact turned out to be hostile? An agent of Whitlock ready to purge her as they did Martin?
A surge of regret hit her like a tsunami, and Hollace wanted nothing more than to split. She was still on the bike. The electric motor was still running. Her contact had not yet –
Headlights approached.
Hollace squeezed the handlebars, ready to throw the motorbike into gear and get out of there as fast as she could, even faster than her heart was beating. She’d draw on the days of her youth, plunging her mountain bike through the thick forest. She could get away. She’d go off-road if necessary, where a car could not.
The approaching vehicle slowed.
Hollace’s pulse pounded against the inside of her helmet when the car’s four-way lights turned on. She didn’t even bother trying to hide the enormous rising and falling of her chest under the leather jacket.
The car pulled off the road alongside her, under the overpass. It was a black sportscar, with elegant curves and blacked-out windows. She couldn’t see inside. It looked like something a rich person would drive, many leagues beyond what she could ever hope to afford herself.
“Oh fuck, what the fuck am I doing…Martin…tell me I shouldn’t be doing this.”
But her command received no reply.
For a long stretch, nobody moved. The car just sat there, as if waiting for her to approach. The only sounds Hollace could hear were her own heavy breaths and the rain against the highway overhead.
Hollace licked her dry lips, heat building inside the helmet, sweat dripping into her eyes that she tried to blink away.
“Martin,” she said in a voice so low, she could barely hear it herself. “You definitely wouldn’t want me to do this…but I know you would do it for me.”
Hollace turned off the motorbike.
Lowering the kickstand, she stepped off and stood facing the mystery vehicle. She kept the helmet on.
The passenger window of the car descended half-way.
Hollace swallowed hard. “Oh fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck fuck fuck…fuck.”
With the largest breath she could draw under the helmet, Hollace approached the car, hands balled into fists to keep them from shaking uncontrollably.
She stopped several feet away from the car, and awkwardly bent over to see inside.
The driver was cloaked in shadow, made even darker by the tint of Hollace’s helmet visor.
“Hollace?” a woman’s voice asked.
The fact that it was a woman startled Hollace. She was expecting a big burly man to come and take care of business, like in the movies.
Hollace stepped one foot closer, but said nothing.
The woman driver leaned closer to get a better view, her face emerging from the darkness, and Hollace swore she was staring at a model from a fashion advertisement, or a movie star, with a blonde crop slicked back and shaved on the sides – a daring cut.
She was the most beautiful woman Hollace had ever seen.
“Sorry,” the driver said. “I thought you were someone else.”
The window started going up as the driver leaned back into the shadow.
“Wait–” Hollace stepped another foot closer.
The window’s movement paused, then descended completely.
Hands now trembling out of control, Hollace raised them to pull off her helmet. She swept her palm over her messy helmet-hair to slick it back. “I’m Hollace,” she said in the most timid voice she had ever made.
The driver pressed a button and the door locks disengaged with a soft click, and the green glow of the dashboard intensified.
Fixing Hollace with a little grin, the driver said, “Get in.”
Against all of her better judgment, Hollace opened the door, and got in.
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